I never knew the petite and pert young lady of her black and white wedding photo.

As long as I've known my mother-in-law she's been a large, rather sedentary, woman. And yet, prior to the inevitable humiliations that accompany age, she carried herself with an, albeit awkward, grace. She loved and lived for her late husband Phil, their family and friends. She enjoyed classic movies and televised sports and Glenn Miller. And she faithfully worshiped and prayed. And that fairly well describes the extent of her ambitions. Yet she expended herself in the pursuit of these passions.

Tonight, however, she lies still with only the slightest suggestion of breath. I'm alone with her in her room, standing watch on her behalf, confident she would have done the same for me. She was fiercely loyal, fiercely protective. It's quiet in this room, save for the rhythmic grind and beat of the oxygen machine.

The beat of the machine's bellows, with just a little imagination, sounds like the sardonic, "ba dum, ching," of a drum and cymbal accentuating the punch lines of a tired old Catskills comic from another era, grieving that his best years are behind him. 

There's a hint of cynicism to the drum and cymbal, as if prodding an empty room for a reaction. And there's a hint of cynicism to death itself. Within the space of three years I've experienced the death of a dog with whom I spent a quarter of my life; I've lost my mother, my last and favorite uncle, my youngest brother, my father, and now my mother-in-law. Yet I refuse to admit to the cynicism of Death.

For the kingdom of God--its power and authority--is established upon the death and triumphant resurrection of its king. Death then need not be feared. Indeed, in the kingdom of God...death bequeaths value to life, to all that is mortal...death does not intrude upon life, but life springs forth from death...and death, in spite of its malignant intentions, delivers from the shackles of mortality.  

And with that, Death, I say, you are a bit like the tired old Catskills comic from another era, grieving that his best years are behind him.

So fare thee well, Ms. Barbara, you loved and lived, long and well. Fare thee well.