You know you are getting old, when 82 seems like an age that is too young for someone to die.
I remember when I would read the obituaries at a kid, the first thing I looked at was the age of the person that died. I had an internal system for organizing and processing this information.
Anything under 40 was young. My parents were in their 30’s so this was my barometer.
The 40’s and 50’s represented my grandparents and other older relatives. While they didn’t seem young to me, I knew them and didn’t want them to go anywhere so my next level of mourning for the families I read about was here.
The 60’s and 70’s were where old started for me.
It wasn’t that I didn’t feel sadness that someone had died, it was more of a “well, they were old, they lived a long life. I often stopped reading if their age was above 60.
The fascination with the 80’s and 90’s was more about how amazing it was that someone could live that long. My great grandparents were all alive when I was born. I lost my great grandfathers before I turned five. My last great grandmother died when I was almost seven.
They were all in their 70’s.
Kenny just turned sixty-nine. Seventy is certainly not old to me anymore. Neither is sixty-one. That is my age. While I am not young. I am certainly not old. Unless of course you ask a ten-year-old!
I had a tricky relationship with my dad.
Early child abuse. Lots of violent behavior after alcohol consumption. Finding out he wasn’t my biological father. A divorce and a remarriage with my mother. Lots of unstable living.
I also learned about his troubling childhood. I watched him suffer and struggle. I watched him learn and grow. I navigated anger and accountability as it balanced in my heart with forgiveness.
I was, quite often, the parentified child. (Sadly, in every way)
My father dedicated his post alcoholic life to family and faith. He became a bit if a health nut. He was involved deeply in his religion, The Baha’i’ Faith. For the most part he walked his talk with humility and grace.
He was also unapologetically human.
He functioned in guilt and remorse. He and my mother had mountains to summit in their life together. They weren’t always on the same trail so to speak. It was not always easy.
Family always came first, and he took care of each of his four children to the best of his ability. He looked at our achievements as happening despite him and often took full responsibility for our failures.
He did bring us all to Baha’u’llah and The Baha’i’ Faith. For that I am grateful.
As a Baha’i’ I trust that death is wonderful for the one experiencing it, that the sadness is what we miss. In the devastation after Molly died, I clung to my belief that she was fine, and happy, and far better off than here on Earth. Having said that, I would take her back in an instant.
My brother Rick’s reaction when my brother Jonathan shared the news of his passing was “oh good!”. He was only thinking of his father at that moment. He was happy for him. His life of suffering was over.
There is a quote in a book called The Hidden Words (Arabic). It was written by Baha’u’llah’.
O SON OF THE SUPREME!
“I have made death a messenger of joy to thee. Wherefore dost thou grieve? I have made the light to shed on thee it’s splendor. Wherefore dost thou veil thyself therefrom?”
What I like about this quote is that it makes me ponder why death is sad to me. In this reflection I see that it is my loss that is sad, not the dead person’s reality. Do I wish that Molly got to grow up?
You’re darned right I do. I want her here. I want to watch her grow up. She was so looking forward to all of her future activities and milestones. She never got to do them. This makes me sad, and sometimes angry.
But this is all about me, and what I wanted for her. Her death has been hard for me to accept. My dad’s isn’t. He is right where he should be. He is there now so I know he is not afraid.
Kenny marvels at the practices connected to death for Baha’i’s. We do not embalm. We do not take a body more than three hours from where it passed. We wash the body with rose water and wrap it in a shroud.
We talk about how happy our dead loved ones must be. We ponder who all must have greeted him. We picture Molly orchestrating the whole thing. It actually makes the whole process better somehow.
He will be buried near Molly on October 23rd. Eight years and four months and twelve days after she was put there. She got thirteen years and one month here. He got eighty-two years and three months here.
It isn’t clear who the lucky one was, bit they are together now in a much better place and I am quite sure Molly is in charge.
I love you Daddy, say hi to everyone and know that we are all okay here in our physical reality.
Fly free and rest easy. You did it.