Death, choice, and mystery

 I come from a large family. While I have only one brother and one sister, my parents lived in more generous households. There were 13 kids in Dad’s family, raised in a coal-mining town in Pennsylvania, and seven kids in Mom’s family, raised in Des Moines, Iowa. That makes 18 aunts and uncles, not counting spouses. And these all reproduced, some prodigiously. My sister Becky and I added up at least 50 first-cousins, again not counting spouses.

As the kids grew up and formed their own families, they scattered. Now my extended family lives all over the country and is no longer united. The few family reunions have been geographical and not well attended.

A few years ago, Becky and I decided to take cousin-trips every other year, in order to get to know our family. The first trip had us staying in homes in Iowa, Illinois, and Wisconsin where we were warmly and enthusiastically hosted by our only living uncle (Illinois) and aunt (Wisconsin) and four cousins. Everywhere we stayed, it felt like family to all of us. Instant rapport.

We took our last trip in February 2020, just before the pandemic forced us all into isolation. We spent time in the homes of three cousins in Florida and South Carolina. Since the pandemic lifted, my body is no longer happy about long trips. That’s sad.

My parents had strong family ties and made sure we kids knew our aunts, uncles, and cousins, even if it meant long car trips across the country. I loved it. I remember our periodic trips to Phoenix, Arizona to visit Dad’s sister, Cusie, and her four kids. Cousin Diane and I were especially close, being the same age and of the same mischievous temperament. The two boys and the older sister largely ignored us. But I admired my older cousin Loretta from a distance. Diane and I were around twelve that one vacation, while Loretta was in college and engaged to be married. I looked up to her as beautiful, sophisticated, brilliant, and now, about to join with her Prince Charming. Loretta was kind to me, but I’m not sure she perceived me as an actual person. More like a pesky little cousin.

One afternoon, Diane discovered a book Loretta kept by her bedside. It was entitled Ideal Marriage and was a sex manual for young virgins about to be married. While Loretta was out of the house, Diane and I lay on Loretta’s bed and began reading parts of the book and devouring the drawings. If not totally new information, the book literally fleshed out details that surpassed our previous imaginings. We founding ourselves giggling hilariously at the astoundingly shocking things we were learning. (Today, 12-year-olds would already know this stuff.)

We stopped laughing when Loretta walked in and caught us. She was not happy. The last memory I have of her is the anger in her eyes as she made us leave her room. Can’t say I blame her. That was years ago.

Last year I learned that Loretta was battling cancer, but I didn’t know the details. Then just last week I received a letter from my cousin Cathy, conveying information from a phone call with Loretta.

Cathy wrote, “Loretta wanted me to contact you and to convey how much all of you in our Forsythe clan meant to her…. Her cancer has progressed. And so she has made the decision to engage in physician assisted dying, which is legal in New Mexico. The “ceremony” (she called it) will take place Friday morning….

“I am so sorry to have to convey this news. She clearly gave this decision careful consideration, a very intentional and thoughtful decision…. I can only imagine what pain she has been in.”

As I write this, the “ceremony” was yesterday morning. Loretta, my beautiful, sophisticated, brilliant cousin, is no longer in pain. I felt sorrow all day, and it lingers now. O, Loretta.

My emotions are mixed. I will not judge my cousin and I will not call her act “suicide.” That word carries a stigma, especially in Christian communities. Many of my friends would label her decision sinful and consign her to hell. That makes me shudder. I find no support for that conclusion in the Scriptures.

Most of us don’t know ahead of time when our death will come, just that it will. Loretta chose her time. She had her reasons, and whether or not those reasons were morally sound, I can’t say. I don’t know where Loretta stood in her relationship to God, but I believe in where God stands in his love for her. A mysterious mercy.

This is all mystery to me. I cling to David’s agonizing prayer in Psalm 139:

Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me
and the light become night around me,”
even the darkness will not be dark to you;
the night will shine like the day,
for darkness is as light to you.

My Lord, I bow before the mystery of your love for all of us. Without understanding and without knowing what I’m praying for, I ask that your presence be with my cousin, wherever she is. Let her know your love. Hold her fast. Turn the darkness to light. Amen and amen.