Lasting Words

This week began without much fanfare, but before Monday ended, it was marked by two losses that brought great grief to my soul. The first was the death of a young Salvation Army leader, as a heart attack robbed his body of breath, leaving his wife a widow in her thirties, and an infant son without his doting father. 

 

The second loss was that of a heart-breaking milestone, as America’s death toll from COVID-19 reached – and surpassed – the five hundred thousand mark. Half a million people, gone. The whole of Ashland county, times ten. To pause at this significant number, the doors of the south portico of the White House were draped with black bunting, and five hundred candles flickered in the night air as our president and vice president honored those lost and those grieving. 

 

With his comforting presence at Sandy Hook and his mournful singing of Amazing Grace in Charlotte following the murders in the sanctuary there, some called President Obama the ‘consoler-in-chief.’ Now, President Biden has accepted that mantle, speaking to the nation: “As we acknowledge the scale of this mass death in America, we remember each person and the life they lived. . . We have to resist becoming numb to the sorrow.” To a shaken nation, he repeated, “We must remember.”

 

One way we remember those who have died is by their last words. Nostradamus, known for his forecasts of the future, predicted his own death: “Tomorrow, at sunrise, I shall no longer be here.” By morning, he had died. As poet Emily Dickinson was dying, she said, “I must go in, for the fog is rising.” Pure Dickinson. And one of my favorite “last words” comes from Harriet Tubman, who longingly said, “Swing low, sweet chariot.” 

 

A tragic aspect of death by COVID-19 is that many of its victims die alone. Intubated and unable to speak, family is often forbidden from being present. Even if they could speak, there is no beloved son or daughter to receive a final word. Or, as with my young friend Damon, death comes so quickly that there is no time to call the family, no words to speak as the body passes from life to death.

 

In the long-ago age of letter-writing, grief-stricken families could read over a last letter, or more recently, listen to a final voicemail. Now, in the age of social media, many turn to a Facebook page or a Twitter thread to listen for one last word. 

 

Here’s what I heard on Monday. Damon and his wife Allison were preparing a meal at The Salvation Army to take out to the streets when a man wandered into the kitchen. Not sure how he got into the locked building, Damon described his own reaction to his Facebook friends. “I told him we were closed right then, but since he made it this far, how could I not help him? He asked for something to eat because he was hungry.” Within minutes, the man was eating a hot meal, perhaps the first in many days.

 

Damon continued: “After he left, one of the teens [who was preparing the meal with them] asked me if I was scared. I said, ‘Naw, just surprised how he got up in here. In my experience, nobody comes to rob The Salvation Army. People come when they need help, so we help them.’” Last words from the heart of a servant.

 

And last words for this column? Dr. Paul Chilcote, a former Ashland Theological Seminary professor, repeated these ancient words on his Facebook page on that same Monday. First, from the New Testament book of Romans: “We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words.” He also offered a song by Jake Runestad: “Angels where you soar up to God’s own light, Take my own lost bird on your hearts tonight. And as grief once more mounts to heaven and sings, let my love be heard.” Indeed, for all who have passed, for all who grieve, let our love, with or without words, be heard.