When Death Comes – Mary Oliver
"When death comes like the hungry bear in autumn; when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut; when death comes like the measle-pox
when death comes like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering: what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything as a brotherhood and a sisterhood, and I look upon time as no more than an idea, and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth, tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something precious to the earth.
When it's over, I want to say all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened, or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world."
I was given some good advice recently. “You should try to read at least one poem a day.” I’ve been trying this for the past few days and I must say it has already enriched my daily experience.
In my time at Emmanuel I took a class on Preaching Values in Great Literature (taught by the wonderful Dr. LeRoy Lawson) and right now the poems I’m reading stem from poetry I read for that class. We had a variety of themes we covered, which was really helpful to me at the time because that class was my first real entrance into reading poetry on a consistent basis. I expected, and indeed it was accomplished, that the class gave me a good, well-rounded base from which to pull preaching illustrations. What I didn’t expect to find was a good, well-rounded base from which to receive instruction and cause for reflection.
The above poem by Mary Oliver has been one poem that I have rediscovered from the class. And instead of coming to this poem ready to enact my rusty skills of interpretation upon it, ready to use the poem to my own ends, I have approached the poem with a more open stance. I’ve come reading the poem, and in turn found that the poem read me.
I wrote last week about my calling to enter convent life. And this week I’m making my first concrete steps to fulfill that calling by writing a letter of intent to an Episcopalian convent. This has scared me senseless, and excited me beyond measure. The mixture is one that has left me breathless at the possibilities to come.
Poised here on the precipice of decisions, sitting carefully at the tipping point, I can’t help but reflect alongside Oliver’s poem.
When life is over for me – what will it have meant? What will my life have meant to this world… to the Kingdom… to God?
I hate it when people tell me about my “potential” in life. It seems to suggest to me that they know the fulfillment of what my life will look like. But I like to think that there are endless depths for me to dive to and infinite heights for me to climb. I don’t want to talk about the potential that I have; I don’t want to think about the fulfillment of who I can be. I don’t want to merely “achieve.” I want to grow. I want to continue to become. And that is exactly the life that the convent offers me. A life of becoming. A life of growth into a reality only God knows.
When death comes, I want to leave this world not simply having visited it but truly made a mark upon it. I don’t want to simply have survived a set amount of time, but seen and helped realize the Kingdom of Heaven brought down to Earth. I don’t want to end this life in tears, fighting the inevitable. I want to meet Death eagerly, knowing that I’ve already died once and am already living… truly and wholly living… in Christ.
I don’t suppose to know what Life will bring. I don’t suppose to understand what Death will mean when it comes for me. But I do know that Life and Death are both a reality that I won’t shy away from. I won’t simply visit, but will make my residence in the grand tapestry woven by God’s grace in this world. With any luck, I’ll see some fruit to the labor ahead.