My grandmother is passing away.
Over the weekend, a piece of music from our days at college was caught in my thoughts. Morten Lauridsen's most popular work has been so overdone it was not strange at all it found its way in somehow. I did not think much of it. In fact, I have played it about once a day at minimum alongside showtunes and worship music in my car as part of normal travel music selections. The thought occurred to me today - hours ago, actually - what the piece is a rumination on and exactly what I learned while I was exposed to it in college. I'll share the text:
Sure on this shining night
Of star made shadows round,
Kindness must watch for me
This side the ground.
The late year lies down the north.
All is healed, all is health.
High summer holds the earth.
Hearts all whole.
Sure on this shining night I weep for wonder wand'ring far
alone
Of shadows on the stars.
What does this mean?
I would be lying if I said I could tell you. I've searched. I'm sure someone will correct me if I am mistaken (please do; I'm quite curious) but I don't believe the author intended for anyone to know except himself. This text is many things to many people. I think it is whatever you mean for it to be and was possibly written exactly for that purpose. I've considered it generic poetic language - beautiful and simple despite the impossibility of understanding it. What do I know?
Yesterday, I was told my grandmother was "transitioning into death", although this turned out not to be the imminent case. I dropped everything: forgot I was messaging my sister, barely dressed myself, sort of walked the dog, and proceeded to her home where I was sure I'd walk in on something horrific. Hospice has been caring for my grandmother at her home this spring. The upside of being at home is being comfortable. The downside is the need for constant supervision by family members instead of medical professionals. Professionals can be called at any time, day or night, but the point is you are your dying mother/grandmother's first responder. It stinks. But I'm happy she is happy in her home.
Her heart and kidneys are failing. It isn't certain which will get her first (pardon the expression). Her kidneys seem to be winning, while, of course, my grandmother is losing. It's been a terribly drawn out process, though - since last fall we've all known she was terminal. This spring, all of the medical treatment to prolong her life stopped in favor of keeping her comfortable.
It hurts really quite badly. Her living was an extension of my grandfather as well, even though he had died. It has turned out to be the spiritual equivalent of losing him twice. It's a strange thing. She is alert and mobile. Sleeps a lot. Completely unwell; absolutely dying, but she just doesn't quit. It's amazing, yet terrible. When we speak it's practically never about the obvious. She's gone almost totally deaf during this time. We write on a dry erase board to communicate with her sometimes, after waking her up to do so.
I grew up next to my grandparents. My mother admonishes no one do this: do not settle down next door to your parents, and not for the reasons one might think. My mother feels a huge responsibility, before her father passed away and before either parent was really sick, to be nearby in case anything should happen to them. It's a sense she could dismiss, but she doesn't. It's very hard to, and she doesn't. This has kept her from doing things away from home at times she otherwise would have happily. Also, coping with the death of one's parents is not a smooth process as-is, especially when you are accustomed to seeing them at least outside of your window every day. What an incredible adjustment.
And I grew up this way, also! Being next door to my grandparents made them, emotionally, a second pair of parents to me. My grandfather passing was huge, but manageable. There was still grandma, after all. Still someone keeping everything going over there, including his memory. Very much alive, yet dead.
Now, I'm finding she's not even dead yet - I could drive 20 minutes and speak with her if I must - but I'm grieving her as if she were. Even now, there are things I wish I could say to her I cannot. Despite her being alive in fact, I am having to find new places in my mind to set things I would have shared with her previously. She has in a sense, died, or at least the version of her that I've had lifelong. A second mother. As my mother could see her parents outside of a window at least once daily, I could look out of my mother's windows and do the same. It is an incredible adjustment, even as I have married and left home. I visit my parents and my grandmother. It goes hand-in-hand. Merely visiting my parents will serve as remembrance of my life with her and my grandfather and, in some ways, their tombs.
Of course, we will all be okay; of course, there are so many more aspects to our lives than just this one. Still, death is death, and parting in the only life you have ever known stings, even with the promise of eternity granted by Jesus Christ. I am grateful I have had all the time in the world with her and could not ask for a second more. I said all I needed to years ago and she and I are at peace. Our relationship is ready for the great divide between this life and the next: death.
So, back to Lauridsen. Sure On The Shining Night was written to be as beautiful in the typical way as the poem is, and it works. The composer/poet combination in that piece is spot on - why wouldn't it be insanely popular, even after you've tired of it or overhearing it has caused it to lose its impact? It is what it is: a choral work that will stand the test of time.
The concert choir at my university performed this a few times and it was stunning each time. The piece lends itself to being breath-taking regardless of who is singing it. A teacher (whose name I will not use here, but could be reading this right now) - who is, by the way, the most talented in her area I likely will ever meet in all of my life - shared with us how difficult this piece of music was for her and certainly not for technical reasons. She lost her mother and the grief was such she felt part of herself had died.
This piece for her was a reminder, this side the ground, her mother is all healed; all health; all whole.
I have been in tremendous grief recent weeks singing this to myself recent days having forgotten most of what I just typed. It hit me this evening, like a stack of thick books had been dropped on my sternum, what it is this music deals with; what it meant to that teacher and what it is now doing for me. My subconscious has been using the music to get the grief out. It clicked as I was dragging clothing out of the dryer. I abruptly called my mother and wept, but couldn't get anything out, content-wise. The phone call was fruitless but I needed someone to feel that grief with me.
Our Lord has made us astonishingly well.
I needed to share this more than you needed to read it and will attach the piece here so you may listen to it.
Four years ago, so did my grandfather on my mother's side. He was in his 70s (less-expected; more abrupt) and my grandmother is in her 90s. She was quite a bit older than he was when they married. This isn't super relevant except to explain the age-gap isn't a typo on my part.
True to her character in that she has stuck around quite a while in life, she is also sticking around in death. She is a very physically strong, able-bodied woman. This is a great characteristic for those of us with life left ahead; I'm not sure this is a great characteristic for one whose death is drawn out as a result. Simply put, her body just won't quit. It's remarkable. I'm not convinced she has quit either (meaning her self; her resolve), despite the many times I've heard her say this year, "I don't know why I'm still here," or "I wish God would just take me." Then some sort of ailment arises - small complications on the sea of a deep bed of medical problems - that's curable. And she seeks to cure it. This doesn't sound like someone who wishes God would just take her. She hasn't given up.
Sure on this shining night
Of star made shadows round,
Kindness must watch for me
This side the ground.
The late year lies down the north.
All is healed, all is health.
High summer holds the earth.
Hearts all whole.
Sure on this shining night I weep for wonder wand'ring far
alone
Of shadows on the stars.
What does this mean?
I would be lying if I said I could tell you. I've searched. I'm sure someone will correct me if I am mistaken (please do; I'm quite curious) but I don't believe the author intended for anyone to know except himself. This text is many things to many people. I think it is whatever you mean for it to be and was possibly written exactly for that purpose. I've considered it generic poetic language - beautiful and simple despite the impossibility of understanding it. What do I know?
Yesterday, I was told my grandmother was "transitioning into death", although this turned out not to be the imminent case. I dropped everything: forgot I was messaging my sister, barely dressed myself, sort of walked the dog, and proceeded to her home where I was sure I'd walk in on something horrific. Hospice has been caring for my grandmother at her home this spring. The upside of being at home is being comfortable. The downside is the need for constant supervision by family members instead of medical professionals. Professionals can be called at any time, day or night, but the point is you are your dying mother/grandmother's first responder. It stinks. But I'm happy she is happy in her home.
Her heart and kidneys are failing. It isn't certain which will get her first (pardon the expression). Her kidneys seem to be winning, while, of course, my grandmother is losing. It's been a terribly drawn out process, though - since last fall we've all known she was terminal. This spring, all of the medical treatment to prolong her life stopped in favor of keeping her comfortable.
It hurts really quite badly. Her living was an extension of my grandfather as well, even though he had died. It has turned out to be the spiritual equivalent of losing him twice. It's a strange thing. She is alert and mobile. Sleeps a lot. Completely unwell; absolutely dying, but she just doesn't quit. It's amazing, yet terrible. When we speak it's practically never about the obvious. She's gone almost totally deaf during this time. We write on a dry erase board to communicate with her sometimes, after waking her up to do so.
I grew up next to my grandparents. My mother admonishes no one do this: do not settle down next door to your parents, and not for the reasons one might think. My mother feels a huge responsibility, before her father passed away and before either parent was really sick, to be nearby in case anything should happen to them. It's a sense she could dismiss, but she doesn't. It's very hard to, and she doesn't. This has kept her from doing things away from home at times she otherwise would have happily. Also, coping with the death of one's parents is not a smooth process as-is, especially when you are accustomed to seeing them at least outside of your window every day. What an incredible adjustment.
And I grew up this way, also! Being next door to my grandparents made them, emotionally, a second pair of parents to me. My grandfather passing was huge, but manageable. There was still grandma, after all. Still someone keeping everything going over there, including his memory. Very much alive, yet dead.
Now, I'm finding she's not even dead yet - I could drive 20 minutes and speak with her if I must - but I'm grieving her as if she were. Even now, there are things I wish I could say to her I cannot. Despite her being alive in fact, I am having to find new places in my mind to set things I would have shared with her previously. She has in a sense, died, or at least the version of her that I've had lifelong. A second mother. As my mother could see her parents outside of a window at least once daily, I could look out of my mother's windows and do the same. It is an incredible adjustment, even as I have married and left home. I visit my parents and my grandmother. It goes hand-in-hand. Merely visiting my parents will serve as remembrance of my life with her and my grandfather and, in some ways, their tombs.
Of course, we will all be okay; of course, there are so many more aspects to our lives than just this one. Still, death is death, and parting in the only life you have ever known stings, even with the promise of eternity granted by Jesus Christ. I am grateful I have had all the time in the world with her and could not ask for a second more. I said all I needed to years ago and she and I are at peace. Our relationship is ready for the great divide between this life and the next: death.
So, back to Lauridsen. Sure On The Shining Night was written to be as beautiful in the typical way as the poem is, and it works. The composer/poet combination in that piece is spot on - why wouldn't it be insanely popular, even after you've tired of it or overhearing it has caused it to lose its impact? It is what it is: a choral work that will stand the test of time.
The concert choir at my university performed this a few times and it was stunning each time. The piece lends itself to being breath-taking regardless of who is singing it. A teacher (whose name I will not use here, but could be reading this right now) - who is, by the way, the most talented in her area I likely will ever meet in all of my life - shared with us how difficult this piece of music was for her and certainly not for technical reasons. She lost her mother and the grief was such she felt part of herself had died.
This piece for her was a reminder, this side the ground, her mother is all healed; all health; all whole.
I have been in tremendous grief recent weeks singing this to myself recent days having forgotten most of what I just typed. It hit me this evening, like a stack of thick books had been dropped on my sternum, what it is this music deals with; what it meant to that teacher and what it is now doing for me. My subconscious has been using the music to get the grief out. It clicked as I was dragging clothing out of the dryer. I abruptly called my mother and wept, but couldn't get anything out, content-wise. The phone call was fruitless but I needed someone to feel that grief with me.
Our Lord has made us astonishingly well.
I needed to share this more than you needed to read it and will attach the piece here so you may listen to it.
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