As I drove past the cotton field, the cotton has now started to bloom.  In another week this field will be white.  The sun is coming up and I should already be in a tree, but I was in no rush today.  It seems like I spent most of my life rushing and now it feels the rush was for nothing.

Even though the air is light and it’s clear it will be a bright day, today is a heavy day.  Twelve years ago today, my best friend took his last struggling breath in a hospital bed.   He laid there for days in some distant state, with his eyes glazed over like he was already dead.  I talked to him but had no idea if he heard me.  I still talk to him, yet now I’m sure he hears me.  I wrote about him in our first book, but what I wrote was not completely honest.  He retired from the same job as me and also retired before he was mandatory.  He lived alone back in the woods. He had his share of etched images in his soul and when he drank (which was every day) those images got the best of him.  It’s hard to watch someone you love and respect, attempt to drown the images that keep them from being whole.  Ultimately, he drank and smoked himself to death.  Part of my drive to pursue my passion for this work comes from the helplessness I felt watching my friend on a pathway to self destruction.  The idea of peer support was unheard of back in his day.  I will always wonder if he had support, would he still be here.  A few months later I watched my father wilt away and die in a similar fashion.  His death was not self-destruction, but a concrete example that life is not always fair.  I used to pray at night that the wilting would stop, and he could just be free from pain.

A few days ago, I was working in the woods enjoying the peace that God seems to provide for us, when I received a text message that thickened the air above me.  “Hey, you’ve always asked about mom. She’s been made comfortable, and the doctor thinks she will pass within the next couple of hours.”  The message was from a friend, with whom I have shared many years of work and tears that were not always visible.  I think back to the dark night when he stood on a scene all covered in his work mode.  His eyes darting back and forth. Not far away his friend and coworker lay there, dead from a gunshot wound.  Killed by a man who just wanted to kill someone that day.  Another concrete example that life is not fair.  I stood there searching for something to say to bring my friend back to the space between us.  I asked, “How is your mom?”   His eyes stopped darting, his soul took a breath, and he said, “She is doing good.”   He said, “I’m being told I should not put my friend in a body bag.   What do you think?”  I said, “You have to.   If not, you will always wonder if it was done right.   Just keep in mind you will take a hit with this one, but sometimes we must do what is right even though it adds weight to our already heavy backpack.”

I read the text about his mom again and tried to call, but it went to voicemail.  He texted back, “Busy, but I will get with you later.”  Many hours later I received a text that she had passed, not died.  Sometimes how we word things is due to how we were taught, or sometimes it’s where we are at with things.  My dad suffered for 13 years, and he died, he never passed.

My friend had to make choices about his mom’s health care.  It’s a tough call when we are asked to make those decisions for others.  We must do what is right for them even though we must live with that decision.  Then we wait until it’s our turn for someone to make those decisions about us. I’m on the paperwork for several people to make choices for them when they can no longer make choices for themselves.  Though I see it as an honor, it also adds weight to the backpack I already carry.

My father said more than once he wanted to die with his boots on.  Unfortunately, that was not the case.  His last pair of boots sit on a shelf in our shop.  A constant reminder that life is not always fair.  There is something to be said and to internalize, about dying on your own terms.  I’ve seen the harsh sharpness of death and I have seen the methodical process of dying on your own terms.  The harsh sharpness of death seems to pull us into its vapor locking vault, where we struggle to process the sharpness.  When we die on our own terms the sharpness does not seem to be there.  In both cases there is loss and grief, but the sharpness is not present.

As I sat on my perch typing this story to you, I received a text from my friend.  “Can you talk?”    I texted back, “No, in a tree.”    He texted back, “Can you carry mom for me?”   I texted back, “I’d be honored.”    I am honored but I’ve carried enough people for several lifetimes.  My friend can relate with that but I’m confident he knew I would do it right. 

As I pulled up to the church, I was the first one there except for the hearse and my friend’s mom.  I was late for my own wedding, but today I was on time. As the people started to gather around, the Live Oak tree above our heads had seen crowds before.  A few years ago, my friend’s mom stood here when she buried her daughter who died in a car wreck.  My friend walked up all dressed in black with that same look I saw on his face that dark night a few years ago.   I asked, “How is your daughter doing?”   For a very brief moment, my friend was back in the space between us, but soon he drifted away again.

I do not recall much of the service inside the church.  My mind drifted to the church fires I used to investigate.  I also drifted back to the people I carried.  Some were big enough that it took several of us and some were small enough I carried them by myself.  Most of the people I have carried did not know me.  To those looking in from the outside I was a man doing a job, but to me it was not a job or a task.  It was an honor to remove them from the sharpness that took them.  The time came for us to carry my friend’s mom out of the church.   The cold handle of the casket was no surprise to my hand.  I have felt the cold handle even through a white glove.  I’m not sure why it’s cold but it always is.

There were 7 of us to carry his mom out of the church.  We were all dressed in white shirts and dark pants.  I wore a cowboy belt buckle given to me when another friend of mine died years ago.  I only wear it on the days that matter.  At the gravesite there were only 5 of us to carry my friend’s mom.   I’m not sure if we lost two on the fifty-mile drive from the church to the cemetery but we were down to five.  The five of us grabbed the handles of the casket and then the man in black carried his mom one last time.

My friend ended up placing his friend in the body bag that night.  Though the sharpness cut him, his wounds are slowly healing, but he does not regret doing the right thing for his friend.  When we carry people from sharpness it’s seldom how we knew our day would be.  Even though my friend did not know he would carry his mom that day, there was no sharpness.

The day after we carried my friend’s mom, I retreated to the woods to sit on my perch.  As I passed the cotton field I stopped in pure amazement.  I got out of my Jeep and cried.  Not tears of sadness, but clearly a thank you from the ones I have carried was etched across the sky.  It was like the sun and the clouds were dancing and rejoicing.

I have lost track of the day from my perch.  The sun is now overhead.  I’ve been in this magnolia tree for hours typing these final words to you.  I internalize pain and loss.  I have felt and witnessed them both.  From the organized manicured grass of a cemetery- to the unorganized last minute family reunion as people like me and my friend have carried your loved one out to the front yard.  For those that have left us with sharpness, it’s a reminder to live and love in the moment.  There will always be a sharpness to the unpredictable life we live.  As my father said, life is not fair.  We should embrace and rejoice when we can go on our own terms, surrounded by those who love us most.  I’m confident most of us do not want to be carried, but I’m confident we like to be held.   When I’ve carried someone from the sharpness or from their own terms, I have held a part of them that allowed them to dance in the wind like a green magnolia leaf.  A part of them that allowed them to embrace us and embrace life.  A part of them that held and nurtured others.  Yes, it’s just a body, but it allowed them to be with us.  It allowed them to physically touch us. Our job as those who carry, those who watch, and those who mourn is to carry their love deep in our souls once their body has been laid to rest.  It does not matter if they passed or died, there is a day to wear the black.  There will be days that the sun does not etch across the sky and somedays the wind does not blow.  But the rest of the days we need to join those other magnolia leaves, embrace the sun, and allow the wind to let us touch others.

For more in-depth stories and how they connect with the science of hope and healing – check out the Crucial Moments Books Series by Dr Jeffrey T Mitchell and Josey at https://crucialmoments.org/

Learn more about Josey here