The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness. –John Muir

This post is not about clarity or the forest, and I am backing us up in time to the middle of July. The hot, humid middle of July. We had just gotten back from our trip to Missouri, Chris was back to work, and I was desperate to get away from some overarching, insistent, persistent bad feelings. Hot, humid weather never makes anything better, in my opinion; in fact, it magnifies madness, swells cells, and creates chaos. I walked down the road to the little lake on Hummingbird Lane. I don’t even remember how bad the mosquitoes and deer flies were as I sweated up the hill. And then as I saw the usually-pretty lake, I was even more disgusted when I saw how the vegetative scum had overtaken the open water.

It is at times like these when we need and crave some clear reflection of reality. Why is all this crap in the way? The reason for our trip to Missouri was to spend time with Chris’ brother Paul who was dying of pancreatic cancer. This brother who was just two years older, the one who played in dirt piles with him, went to Boy Scouts camp, and drove him to high school. We watched some Big Valley on TV, walked to get the long-neglected mail for him, got an Icee that cooled his throat, and cleaned up the kitchen a little bit. Paul joked about it all with his dry one-liners, and we laughed. It was as good and normal as ever, even as we talked about end-of-life things. The brothers reminisced about boyhood memories, and Paul held his arm over his stomach and rocked ever-so-slightly.

As we sat together, there were layers of feelings—fresh in-the-moment ones, surface take-care-of-business ones, deep, dark feelings about what was to come, and a forest of sweet memories.

I had listened to a Rob Bell podcast where he talked about the struggles and irritations in our lives, and I had written a line he said on a post-it note where I could see it every day. “This is all part of it.” This is all part of it. This pond scum is part of a hot July summer. The mosquitoes and deer flies are a part of a still, humid day. Dying is part of living. We can look a little closer at what clouds our vision, what’s getting in the way of our clear reflection. The Duckweed is actually kind of pretty close up, and do you see the three damselflies who live and fly above the Duckweed?

The flat, floating Yellow Pond Lily leaves send up surprising stalks of flowers. How did I miss them before? This is all part of it.

The intricate cluster of pink balls to open stars of the Milkweed flower housed ants and a tiny caterpillar. This is all part of it. It was a comforting mantra for my nervous body and unsettled soul.

And then, as I walked home in the July heat and humidity, it started to snow! Out of the blue sky drifted snowflakes—snowflakes of Cottonwood seeds. It was somewhat of a miracle to me—‘snow’ in July!

A month and a day after the snow in July, Paul passed from this world. He and his dear family caregivers had a week of the very serious business of dying. I can’t even imagine, though we waited for texted updates and prayed for…. oh my gosh, the things we prayed for changed as the week went on. On Sunday, it would have been ‘easy.’ Each night after that, we wondered how he was holding on, why he was holding on, who he was holding on for. I have so much respect and honor for our family members who were by his side every hour of that long week. But from my distance, it struck me like a lightning bolt that Paul’s dying wasn’t only about his letting go, seeing people one more time, saying and hearing the words that would never be said or heard again, and holding on for whatever reason—it was about us all. We are all part of it. Everybody who loved him and who he loved was a part of his dying. We all longed to see certain faces, say certain words, take away pain, if only we could, pass on peace, and change the way we do certain things in our lives. What did each of us need to let go of, say or hear said, promise to ourselves and God? How did I not notice that before? What is getting in the way? What is really important in this life? The last time I saw Paul, I kissed the top of his bald head, he said, “See you later,” and we smiled. Exquisite grace, precious moment. Snow in July is a miracle. Life is a miracle. Death is a miracle. We went through the wilderness of dying with Paul to get to the Universe of Love. All the while God is holding us all in the palm of his hand and smiling. This is all part of it.