The Eulogy I Didn't Write

I don't really know where this post should go, or even if it should be public.  But I need to write.  

Two weeks ago Sunday, my aunt died.  We weren't close; it's just that she had always been part of the bedrock in my life, and now she's gone.  Both her and my uncle (her husband) are gone.  

My mom called Sunday morning, could barely get through the explanation of my aunt's dire condition. I   packed our bags, and my daughter and I drove home.  Based on some previous life experience, I knew when my mother said, "her kidneys aren't functioning, there's something seriously wrong with her liver, and she's refusing care," that it wouldn't be long.  

When I got home, my mom's house was chaotic:  both my sisters and their kids were there, and mom's plumbing was clogged beyond repair.  I hung out for an hour or so before I even mentioned my aunt, even though I knew her death was imminent.  I knew because when my sister-in-law died, it sounded similar.  I knew because of the pain in my mom's voice when she called me.  When we had finally mobilized & were headed out the door, we got the call.  

My cousin had been sitting with her for hours.  She left to get some dinner; she left my aunt with some dear friends, and before she could pay the tab, my aunt was gone.  

My cousin said it couldn't have been more than a half hour, and my aunt sounded fine before.  She never would have left had she known.  But I think my aunt was waiting.

See, my aunt had been sick before.  First, when she was very young, scarlet fever.  Then some reproductive issues following the birth of her 3rd child which nearly killed her twice, but she pulled through.  She suffered a hysterectomy & a blood transfusion, but she survived.  Then cancer.  She beat it once, then twice.  Years and years of her life used  up in doctor's offices, forcing herself to suppress the gag reflex every time she had to swallow her chemo (in pill form).  We were all thankful she didn't lose her hair.  Then about 3 years ago, my uncle was diagnosed with lung cancer.  She watched helplessly as he died slowly, painfully.  

At some point before my uncle got really bad, but after he had been diagnosed,  we know the doctors detected a spot on her liver.  The day after my aunt passed, we spent much time discussing what happened.  One of the attending physicians called my cousin to apologize because he had no idea she would die so quickly.  Seemingly everyone was surprised.  But I did not feel surprised.  It made sense to me.  

See, when my aunt got that call about the spot on her liver, we think she knew she had cancer.  We think, or it's my great suspicion, anyway, that my aunt simply chose right then and there that she was done.  No more needles, no more x-rays, scans, pills.  She was done.  It must have been so hard for her to watch my uncle die of cancer, him being the healthy one, the rock we all just assumed would always be there.  

Whatever was on her liver; it could have been cancer, but it also could easily have been cirrhosis or something else: it went untreated.  She knew it would probably kill her, but she chose to live her last years without hospital visits, tests, phone calls, medications, x-rays, scans, forms, insurance, and lengthy waits in doctor's offices.  She made that decision, and I admire her for it.  She only returned to the hospital because she had so much pain.  She would not allow the doctors to do anything except manage her pain.  She wouldn't even allow the nurses to turn her.  She was done. So how can we assume that the hour of her death was anything but a decision?  How much strength must it have taken for her to refuse medical care?  For her to delay the relief of her pain until my cousin left so she didn't have to see her mother die?  

I stand in awe of my aunt's strength.  I'm amazed at this woman, at the strength in her life, and the strength in her death.  She chose the end of her life.  She spared us the pain of yet another illness.  She spared her daughter the experience of her death.  In her death, she was loving her family as much as she was living her life.  We all have flaws in our life, but these are the lessons I'm taking from my aunt: that of strength, of difficult decisions made, of loving.  I miss her very much, but I'm thankful for these lessons.  

Breaking up with the Mormons

This is an essay I wrote for the Oregon Writing Project almost 4 years ago.  It doesn't have to do with the bible itself, but with my own religious decisions.  Many of my colleagues read & commented on this essay, saying they thought the story wasn't over, that they'd like to see where I stand after some time has passed.  Nothing has changed.

It’s official now; I’m walking without a net.  I’ve severed my ties with that institution that’s as familiar and comfortable to me as my childhood home.  I’m no longer associated with my church.  I finally came to the conclusion that my issues with the doctrine were greater than the social benefits of membership.  I saw many good things in the church, but couldn’t get over the inequalities inherent in their doctrine. 

After dodging church elders over and over, finally my husband made me answer the door.  He, too, was tired of their relentless quest to see to the spiritual needs of their wayward sister.  I’ve never had any problem with the people in the church.  I respect their beliefs and I understand that faith in most religions is good for people.  But I don’t believe in missionary work, and I don’t believe that the institutions always have the people’s best interests in mind.  It’s a strange dichotomy in my mind, the difference between the people who believe they are doing God’s work, and the institution which may or may not have ulterior motives.   This is always in the back of my mind when the missionaries or church elders come knocking. 

On this particular day, it was a church elder and his son.  They were just making a friendly call to check on us and see how we were doing.

“Just ask them not to come back” prodded my husband. 

So I did.  I told them it’s nothing personal, but I left the church on purpose.  I’m not your typical “jack-Mormon” who just sleeps in on Sundays; I made a conscious decision to leave, and they really shouldn’t waste their time.  I said this to a man my father’s age.  He had short, graying red hair and blue eyes.  His young son, blonde, blue eyed, and squeaky clean, looked at me with curiosity.  So naive.  They seemed to understand, and took their leave.  A few weeks later, a letter arrived from the bishop.  Peppered throughout the text were words like, “sister,” and “love.”  The letter insisted I was leaving a place of acceptance and the bishop insisted he loved me, though we’d never met.  In it were instructions on how to officially leave the church, annul the relationship.

I followed.  I sent an e-mail to the bishop who professed his love for me, even though he’d never met me, with a brief, yet thoughtful explanation.  I explained that while I grew up in the church, have many fond memories of the church, and have a strong emotional attachment to the church, I don’t actually believe the teachings.  Like many little LDS kids on Sunday, I gave my testimony during sacrament; I professed I believed Joseph Smith was a true prophet, that the Latter Day Saints is the one true faith.  But, I told him, I’ve revisited these teachings as an adult, and I just don’t agree.  You say its faith; I must have faith.  But, no, I don’t. There are no reasonable responses to my questions, and I’ve little faith in institutions alone.  He responded with a polite e-mail, that he’d take care of the paperwork.  It became businesslike, as if I wanted to cancel my cable.

Training for the Portland marathon, I often ran nature trails.  The little short ones were very nice, but it was the long 20 mile runs that were the most fulfilling.  Susan, my running partner, and I would run out of things to say.  We’d spend a good ten or twelve miles complaining about work, ranting about politics, discussing mutual friends, and when we got really tired, fantasizing about cheeseburgers and fries and catsup.  But on those long runs, there was always time for quiet.  Time to listen to the rhythm of my footfalls, hear my breath, and pay attention to myself on the trail.  I’ve always joked that my long runs were my church. 

Susan was faster than me – she still is.  She runs fast and hard, and she doesn’t slow down except for maybe a surgery here and there.  It used to annoy me that she’d take off and leave me, but now I realize those were my best times, the quiet times.  Time alone to stop in the middle of the forest and gaze at the surrounding splendor.  Look at the moss growing off the trees, the ferns covering the forest floor, the lush green life exploding before me.  Appreciate the way my calves were covered in dirt, and how I smelled a little bit like dirt, among other things.  I liked those alone times when I had nothing to think about besides perhaps thanking my legs for bringing me here, to the forest where I can breath. 

The key to trail running is allowing the trail to dictate your pace.  The hills should slow you down a bit; take shorter stops, be kind to your legs.  Relax a bit on the downhill sections, and let the inertia of your body push your pace a bit; this is the time to work on your leg turnover – how fast can you move this body?  Trails usually slow runners down a bit.  The runner must watch for roots that trip you up, or the ridges that will cause even the most experienced runner to turn an ankle.  I often just watched the trail ahead of me, dodging roots and errant branches sticking out over the path.  At times there are entire trees over the trail and the runner must stop for a second to decide over or under.  These are moments of tranquility, when there’s nothing else.  No lists, no noisy neighbors, no papers to grade, no guilt at not having dinner ready.  Just a decision about how to navigate the tree in the path.

This was my weekly meditation.  My Sundays in church.  My head was clear; I was usually too tired to think.  My spirit was calm, and I felt at ease.  Exhausted as I was, I always emerged from the trail rejuvenated.  The tranquility of the forest, the softness of the trail, and the natural world around me soothed my soul and put me at peace.  And isn’t this what church should do?

I suppose it could be ironic, but I don’t think so.  I got so much more fulfillment out of my weekly long runs than I ever did in church.  This has much to do with my leaving.  My hesitancy to leave, of course, was fear.  Fear that I’m angering my God, fear that I’m leaving the one true church as I was taught as a kid, fear that I’m no longer one of God’s children now…  These are emotional concerns, however.  Reasonably, of course, it doesn’t matter.  Whether I was a non-attending member or a non-member, I was still a doubter and non-believer. 

Part of my decision was a matter of integrity.  I won’t lie to myself or to others and just go through the motions with something so important.  This is spirituality; it’s sacred and personal.  My personal integrity is more important to me than entertaining this idea of belief in a doctrine that doesn’t speak to me. 

When I was finally removed from the church, I got a final letter.  The words, “sister,” and “love” were absent.  It officially proclaimed me severed from the church in every way, and further, the church rescinded all of it’s blessings.  They take back their love; they take back their well wishes for my happiness, health, and well being.  I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care.  It feels like a bad break-up, actually.  I’m the one who doesn’t want the relationship anymore, and my hurt lover, the church, is now dropping off my things in anger.  Well, I won’t take back my love and well wishes.  I see the good that the church does, and I see how it’s good for it’s followers, yet I confess I'm perfectly fine walking by & not in.