The Art of Saying Goodbye

I wonder if you’ve ever sat with someone who is close to death, knowing that it will be the last time you speak with them, and they with you.

If they still have their wits about them, they are fully aware of their own mortality, that each moment counts, and there is precious little time to make a mark, to leave a forensic “I was here” and, most of all, to impart something of value to those they love. Gathered at their side, family members strain to hear every whispered syllable of blessing, encouragement, and advice, knowing this will be the final message.

I remember sitting with my dying grandfather at the old folk’s home on the north coast of Tasmania on a grey and wet winter’s afternoon, surrounded by the scraps of his life — a glass on the bedside table half-filled with water for his false teeth, faded photographs in dated photo frames, a few dust-covered trinkets, some ancient books and his most prized possession, his leather-bound King James Bible.

Cancer riddled his body; his frailty made all the more shocking by his broad shoulders and tall frame, now hunched over in an armchair next to his bed. I knew that this was it — the last conversation — the final fingerprint that he would lay on my life.

He expressed his great affection for me and told me that he had been praying for me since the day I was born. I had no reason to doubt it. He was, after all, the most beautifully devout Christian man I have ever known — not one of those overbearing or judgemental kinds, but the kind of Christian who might cause you to believe that Christ may actually have the power to transform a human being for the better.

Poppy reached for his trusty King James and, with trembling hands, flipped to his favorite verse — Amos 4:12. It says: “Prepare to meet thy God.”

“When I first walked into a church as a young man,” He said, “The preacher read this verse and asked, ‘Are you ready to meet your God?’ And I knew that I was not, so I got down on my knees, right there and then, and I made my peace with God. Now, sixty-five years later, I am ready to meet him face to face. I am ready to go.”

And he was, indeed, ready. That was the last time I spoke to my Poppy. He passed away a short time later, but I shall never forget our final conversation.

Several years later, my grandmother took a rather different approach when she noticed that death had sidled up to her bedside. Afforded the liberty of some parting words for the world, she took hold of the opportunity to make one last wisecrack.

“When I die, they are going to put me on top of Poppy. I haven’t been on top of Poppy for such a long time. I’m really looking forward to it,” she quipped with a glint in her eye and the same cheeky grin that had endeared her to us our entire lives. Even Death broke into a momentary smile at my 101-year-old grandmother’s brazen sex joke, but only for a moment, and then he dutifully led her away by the hand.

And we laughed as we cried.

I don’t know about you, but when someone is about to die, especially if they are close to you, you lean in when they speak. You know whatever they are going to say to you, it is of the utmost importance because it is their final word — the exclamation point at the end of their story.

And the sands of time compel a dying person to be economical with their words, to say that which is most essential, and dispense with the trivial. It’s almost as if when Death takes us by the hand and turns our eye toward the great beyond, he has a moment of compassion and says to us, “Is there anything you want to say before you go?” Then flicks open his pocket watch and adds impatiently, “Make it quick! You’re nearly out of time.”

What do you say at that moment — if Death even allows you such a grace? For it certainly isn’t granted to everyone. We who spend our lives writing words for others, could we boil it all down into a few short sentences for the final paragraph of our lives? Do we use words that are weighty and serious? Or do we make one final wisecrack?

More importantly, will we have time to say everything we’ve left unsaid?

Such a question works both ways, doesn’t it? For we who are left behind also have things we want to say before it is too late. We do not want our loved ones to depart before we thank them, tell them that we love them, tell them what they mean to us.

So often, we leave the “thank yous” until the end as if the end itself were somehow an unexpected intruder. In fact, death, whether he stares us in the face or whispers to us on the breeze, has made his presence known to us for almost our entire lives. He sends an invitation to us well in advance, but, like so many other invitations, we don’t pay them any attention until it’s almost too late.

But the invitation remains nonetheless.

It appeals to us to say now what we usually say at the end. Why save your most important words for your final breath? Why wait to express your love? Your gratitude? Your affection? Why give your best advice at the last moment? And why hold back part of yourself for a time that may never come?

Whether we hear it or not, Death is already saying to each of us, “Is there anything you want to say before you go?” And, flicking open his pocket watch, he adds impatiently, “Make it quick! You’re nearly out of time.”

So what will we say?

Could we look death in the face and, knowing that we’ve already said everything that we need to say, have time enough to spare to calmly break open our favorite book for one final reading of the verse that gave us the greatest hope? Could we even make death smile with one final quip and a belly laugh before saying farewell?

Only then will we be able to embrace death like an old friend, knowing that we died as well as we lived. My grandmother and grandfather knew this all too well.

Do not save for tomorrow what needs to be said today.

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This post was previously published on Backyard Church.

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