Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine et lux perpetua luceat eis.
Eternal rest grant them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them.
My brother died today. It sounds harsh doesn't it. Stark. Maybe that is why we avoid it with euphemisms like 'passed away', 'gone to his rest' or 'we lost him today', trying to soften the reality, make it gentler or less final. But the reality is harsh and stark and painful. My beloved brother is gone from my sight and my touch and my hearing. For people of many faiths death is not an ending but a transition, therefore not to be feared, but accepted as part of a life which continues. This is comforting to many.
But for me, on this day, at this moment I feel only loss.
I have just been reading Susanna Kearsley's new book "Bellewether". Oddly, a minor theme in the story is the main character's recent loss of her brother. To avoid copyright issues, I will paraphrase a description that I felt very apt. 'She said that missing her brother caused her physical pain, as if an organ had been removed and the edges stitched so badly that it might never heal. But she hid her wound under her clothes so that no one would know that she was no longer whole.'
It is true though isn't it. Death leaves holes in our soul, places that are invisible yet scarred. And we hope that we have covered them successfully so they cannot be seen. We hide them because it makes others uncomfortable. They don't know what to say. They sometimes place time limits on grief. They think your faith should be enough. Actually, there is very little to say that helps, and nothing to say that changes anything. Grief has its own timetable and cannot be scheduled. Faith may provide hope for the future and solace in the present, but must make room for pain and its expression.
Grief's sharpest edges will soften over time and the initial pain will dull eventually. Tears will flow less frequently but they will remain close by for a long time. Healing will not take place if grief is hidden away or not acknowledged.
'Requiem' is most often thought of in the context of a funeral mass or the music that might be heard in such a setting. It also denotes an act of remembrance. As such, I will remember my brother Alan.
Alan was born Francis Alan Thornton in 1943. Wartime. My Uncle Frank was going overseas, and before he left he visited my parents. My uncle had been named for his grandfather, and he asked my parents that if the baby my mom was carrying should be a boy, would they name him Francis so that the name would continue. My mom gave birth to a boy and he was named Francis Alan, and thankfully my uncle also returned from war.
When Alan was three months old, the family moved from New Brunswick to Toronto, Ontario. For my dad this was a return home to his parents and family, but for my mom, an arduous uprooting to a new province. I don't know if she ever completely forgave my dad for bringing her to inhospitable Upper Canada.
Alan second from left, me far right
I'm not sure that Alan was a diligent student or even much interested but he had a natural affinity for how things worked.
Dad and Alan with the day's catch
Al loved my grandparents and he and Barb spent many weekends with them. I think he and our grandpa were kind of kindred spirits.
Alan was a soft-spoken and reserved person but I loved to see him laugh. He had a quiet faith, enjoyed private study, and shared his thoughts in small groups. He was a behind the scenes kind of guy, a hard worker.
He didn't like politics on the job or anywhere else.
Alan had a reputation in the family for being the last to any gathering; Barb and the children would be ready, but another cup of tea was needed to fortify for the fray.
He listened. He wanted to know what you thought. He was interested in the activities of his nieces and nephews and wanted to get to know them. Alan had stopped travelling with his job before my children grew old enough to really know him and that causes me sorrow.
Spans of time would pass that I would not see him or even talk to him, but it didn't seem to matter for we would just pick up where we left off, and I felt secure it his care for me, and I knew he was there.
Before Alan became too ill, we began a correspondence that is very precious to me. I have his letters to read and touch, a tangible and precious gift. When I realized that I had received the last letter that he would be able to write, I mourned deeply.
When Barb told us that Alan had finally been definitively diagnosed with Lewy Body Dementia, we did not really know what that meant. It brought him confusion and anxiety, terror and delusions. It took his abilities away one at a time; a nightmare for Barbara and my reserved brother. So we have been grieving for a long time, mourning each gradual degeneration until now; the final moment of loss. A different kind of grief starts now, the kind that has to acknowledge that we will no longer see a beloved face and touch his hand.
We know that he no longer suffers and are glad.
We know he had a deep faith that gave him peace.
I hope he knew how much we cared for him.
I hope he is having a cup of tea with the family.
I hope he will keep watch over me.
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