On Death

 

On Death.

While waiting for public under the concrete shelter at the bus stop I imagine it falling apart, crushing me underneath. Riding in the back of a truck I can’t help but think about flying out of the bed as a result of hitting a cow. Lighting our gas stove is particularly dangerous- I could easily slip and fall into the flames. Deadly flesh eating diseases aren’t all that rare either, and when I got a staph infection last month that was my first diagnosis. I’m also half convinced that I have a brain tumor (there are multiple symptoms, but I try not to think about them too much so I don’t freak out). Almost every time I get in a car my mind wanders to brutal and mutilating car accidents that would leave me beheaded or with some other gruesome injury. Over Easter weekend I was home alone for a few hours and was legitimately afraid of being mauled by PG’s dog Max (this one might have been kind of legitimate though, he’s pretty mangy). You get the picture. I have an unusually morbid curiosity. It’s not like I live my life in some cautiously depressed state of mind, I just appreciate the mundane and ordinary opportunities death could use to take my life. I never knew this was strange until I started voicing these death filled scenarios in my head (mostly because when you’re with people 24/7 you run out of things to talk about and just start saying everything that you think) and my teammates told me I was a freak. It’s just normal to me though.

I told all of this to my friend Amelia and she had some really insightful things to say.

It is not morbid to think about death. Death is essential to life. Death unifies people. Death can be beautiful. And that feeling of you or those whom you love and are close to are going to die soon, well I have a theory about it…at least on behalf of God-fearin’ people.

 Jesus is all about death. What does He always say? “If anyone wants to come with me he must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow Me.” (Matthew) “You must die and be born again in order to see the Kingdom of Heaven.” (John) “In the same way, any of you who do not give up everything he has cannot be my disciple.” (Luke) This could go on and on but they are all various things to the effect of “To follow me. Come and die.” And so inherently if you KNOW Jesus you’re sort of going to be all about death too. Life of Christ-following means forfeiting comfort and security for God’s glory; because you’re down with Jesus, you’re down with death & so of course you’re always going to be thinking about it.

By large, your life IS death.

I think she’s right. We’re so uncomfortable with death because it’s scary and frankly weird, but death is as much a part of life as birth is. Especially a life following Christ. We’re constantly dying and being born. Daily we’re supposed to crucify the flesh. So why am I so perplexed by earthly death? I remember this one time when I was like six or so, really young. I was lying in bed and realized for the first time that I was going to die. I started crying and couldn’t stop. I found my mom and she tried to comfort me but the thought that one day I would no longer exist on the planet was so terrifying and incredibly sad to me that I was inconsolable.

The other night we were sitting in our room after dinner and Majabane came in. “Ish, somebody died,” was all he said. My first instinct was to laugh because he was obviously joking, but then I remembered that I was in Swaziland and he was being serious. A man had been hit by a car crossing the highway by our house. I didn’t know him, but I absolutely adore his children Dadada, Sphey, and Tembelihle and his mother Lily. We all rushed out of the room and towards to highway and the sounds of wailing women and crying children. I didn’t even make it all the way to the road. I saw Dadada staring toward all the cars with tears streaming down his face and his mother walking in circles consumed by grief with 8 month old Tembelihle in her arms. I couldn’t leave them. That night is blurry in my mind. All I have are a few distinct memories. Dadada on my lap, shaking with silent tears. The widow and I laying on the ground together, her sobbing “Make, mama, ngulugulu,” over and over again (Mother, Mama, God) for what seemed like hours. Watching grown men cry, lit up by the flashing blue police lights. Singing the only song I could think of in SiSwati, despite my terrible singing voice. “Uphageme, uphageme, uphageme”. You pick me up, you pick me up, you pick me up.

I expected to feel God almost tangibly in the face of such extreme and real grief. I expected him to make himself inexcusably evident. But that wasn’t the case. It wasn’t that I questioned his presence absolutely, I just questioned why in the midst of such reality I was struggling to see him. Shouldn’t he be the only one I can think of when I’m in the midst of death? Instead I was preoccupied by the normal things one is preoccupied by. The mosquitoes that were biting my ankles. My leg falling asleep underneath me. The shooting stars streaking across the sky every once in a while. My lungs continued to breathe in and out. My heart kept pumping. The world was still turning even though this woman’s whole universe had been shattered.

 In the moment this was disconcerting. What is the point of life if when you die things continue to happen as usual? But as I’ve thought and processed through this, I’ve come to see that the beauty found in death lies precisely in the normality of it. It is a part of life. There are people taking their last breaths as you read this. Mother and fathers and children die every day. And yet, though it is normal in the sense that it is natural and happens to everyone, it is not normal in that it leaves us changed. Death, though it doesn’t take us fully until the end of our lives, leaves inexplicable and unpredictable marks on those it touches along the way. I will not be the same after that night. Indeed, I have not been the same since Jesus called me to come and die.