Grief

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Shunned (2018)

  Bob was a true friend to princes and paupers alike, and the crowd reflected his generous, egalitarian nature. Each person was an echo of his diverse and interesting life as a friend, father, husband, uncle, brother, leader in the human-potential and environmental movements, international management executive, real estate developer, attorney, nonprofit board member, global citizen, and lover of life. I took in the forlorn faces of gifted artists and accomplished writers, housewives, scholars, spiritual teachers, captains of industry, of our accountant, car mechanic, and home contractor. Over the years, our respective communities had coalesced and I was comforted by the attendance of these, my companions in grief. Clutching a tissue and getting my balance at the podium, I cleared my throat and heard my gravelly voice float though the sound system. I thanked everyone for coming to comfort one another and celebrate Bob’s life. It had been twelve days since Bob’s death, and one word kept coming to my mind to describe his essence: luminous. “Luminous,” I repeated, with more heft, looking up at the high beams. He was a shimmering, radiant light. Several heads nodded. I shared that once he got clear, Bob was not afraid to die, only sad at leaving us. He had no unfinished business, no grudges, no words left unsaid. He died free of pain, in a state of grace. I introduced Ann, who was the first of eight people, including his children, to eulogize Bob, and took my seat in the front row, between Bob’s sister and my stepson. The strain of the proceeding weeks had melted twenty pounds off my frame, and I could feel my sit bones press into the seat cushion while Ann opened with an ecumenical blessing. A sacred, tender reverence filled the room as each person came forward, transparent with deep emotion, and shared their remembrances. Laughter bubbled up many times, reflecting Bob’s capacity to dance with the divine without taking life too seriously. Bob was not a religious man, though all who knew him would agree he was a deeply spiritual person, which is to say he was endlessly fascinated by the mysteries of life and pursued enlightenment without ever expecting to fully achieve it. Raz said that while it wasn’t always obvious what he was doing, the main point of Bob’s life was to peel back the layers from his heart, to more fully express love. I let the sentiments wash through me and felt deep gratitude for everything Bob taught me about love. Man, did we have fun together. With each story, I saw anew how much he meant to his friends and family. One person said Bob was like the floor—always there, steady, supportive. “You wake up each morning and count on the floor to be there. It just is.

• From Shunned (2018)

  After reviewing Bob’s case with a panel of other doctors, the oncologist said Bob’s disease was highly treatable and felt Bob was plenty strong to endure chemotherapy. The graveness of the situation was not lost on us, but, inherently optimistic, Bob and I latched on to the phrase “highly treatable” and proceeded as recommended. We both believed in the body’s creative capacity to regenerate and surprise us. We assumed we were in for a lousy six months of treatment, to be followed by a period of rebuilding his strength and well-being. Life would be forever altered, but life would go on. Instead, Bob died sixty-two days after receiving his diagnosis. The first, three-day round of chemotherapy was administered in the hospital, and Bob’s body accepted the medicine, experiencing just a whisper of nausea, like a passing spell of car-sickness. He came home and took to his bed, declining visitors. Something fierce awakened in me, and I found an inner calm beyond my previous experience. Adrenaline and unconditional love mixed into a potent cocktail of physical strength and mental acuity that allowed me to function on very little sleep. A well-honed meditation practice, prayer, and a daily dose of Ativan carried me, and I sensed we were both being held by divine forces and sources. A core team of close friends gathered around us and helped me with practical matters and navigating the tsunami of details and decisions demanding attention. One of those friends created a registry on CaringBridge.org , where we posted news of Bob’s progress to keep friends and family informed. Every evening I sat at his bedside and read aloud the e-mails and cards that came in from hundreds of people around the world. Bob and I both felt everyone’s love at the intuitive level of essence, and that sustained us through some difficult moments. We had a string of days when rest and optimism prevailed, followed by a series of strenuous complications, two emergency trips to the hospital, time spent in intensive care. His decline was wicked fast. Gaunt from extreme weight loss, Bob’s body was no longer a match for the illness or its treatment. Flabbergasted and bereft, I brought him home to the merciful quiet of hospice care. Four days later, he was gone. We were together eight short years, but our relationship had a timeless quality. Losing Bob knocked me out of time. He was only ever good to me, and we were good together. Despite the awfulness that comes with terminal illness, we shared staggering moments of truth and beauty that mystify me still. Holding the space for his peaceful transition was one of the supreme honors of my life. The night before he passed away, I had the sudden presence of mind to ask our friend Raz to contact my parents and tell them what was going on. I lacked the emotional bandwidth to call them myself. I required nothing from them.

• From Shunned (2018)

  It would be a completely different experience without the presence of my niece and nephew, giggling at the pool, having tickle fights before bedtime, letting me give them piggyback rides to the clubhouse, Sheena sitting in front of me at the fire, asking for a “rub back.” I could feel my cheeks warming. “Maybe I should stop in to see them before we leave tomorrow,” I said, grasping at the high road. Randy lived just a few blocks from my parents. The corners of Mom’s mouth sank at the suggestion. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” she said. “Randy made a point that he would avoid our home during your visit, and that you were not welcome to go there.” My throat stung. “Wow,” I said. I felt like a large hammer had just pounded me into place. It was a curt reminder of what I was going to face from each of them. They would all be on the same side soon enough. I also realized with sadness that I would not get to see Sheena and Tyler, probably for a long while. The WELCOME HOME sign and surprise greeting at the airport suddenly made more sense. My family was compensating for my brother’s absence, attempting to ease the sting of his condemnation. “Their loss,” I said, shaking off the bad news, at least at the surface. “What’s the shower schedule for the morning?” And we went back to our banter, talking through the logistics of the next day. We couldn’t recapture our riant mood, but I could feel everyone’s relief in having delivered this bitter news. After clearing the table and helping with the dishes, I retreated to my room to unpack and absorb this setback. I unzipped my suitcase and slid the closet door open. I can’t have it both ways , I thought, shaking the wrinkles out of a pair of pants. My choices are freedom or family. What a lousy set of options. Why couldn’t I have been satisfied with my life the way it was? Was it really so bad? Why couldn’t I have come from a religion or a family where differing lifestyles were met with tolerance? I sank into bed, drifting to sleep on a sea of sepia-toned memories. The next morning, I rose early, showered, dressed, and repacked my bags. Mom had offered to lend me her car for my drive into the city, where I was to meet Ross for breakfast. I sought her out to borrow her keys and found her in the kitchen, counting out vitamin pills and dropping them into a container with separate compartments for each day of the week. She was wearing the same bathrobe and slippers she’d had on the night before. “The keys are on the piano,” she said, and stopped what she was doing, turning to look at me. “And, Lindy, dear,” she said. “When you meet with Ross, don’t be too haughty.

• From Shunned (2018)

  The calls left me conflicted. The joy of hearing mundane news was tempered by the need to hide much of the person I was becoming. I felt hollow and two- faced. These conversations lacked intimacy and were a steady reminder of the widening chasm between us. But I didn’t think I had a choice. If I told the fuller truth, the campaign for my salvation would intensify. I’d be questioned for signs of “repentance” but couldn’t locate any remorse. Then what? I wasn’t strong enough to face it. So I mourned the widening gap and carried on enjoying my clandestine, worldly ways. Chapter 11 Sell your cleverness. Buy bewilderment. —Rumi From time to time, Ross phoned from Portland. Our divorce had been final for a few months, and though our house had been awarded to him, my name was still on the deed and mortgage. He kept me posted on his efforts to refinance without me, releasing me once and for all from that obligation. These conversations were cordial but never lasted long. I didn’t have much to say to him and wasn’t interested in hearing about everyone and everything I’d left behind. “Before we hang up, I need to ask one more thing,” said Ross. It was a Sunday afternoon, and I’d just settled in to read the paper and watch TV. “Go ahead,” I said. “Ask away.” “Are you seeing anyone?” he said, and my heart seized up. “No,” came my fast reply—maybe too fast, I thought. “No,” I repeated. And I paused. Earlier that afternoon, I’d returned from a first date with a handsome Italian named Mario. He’d approached me in the grocery store and, after making charming observations about the similar contents in our carts, asked for my phone number. Mesmerized by his wit and deep blue eyes, I’d surrendered to the pickup. We’d met for pizza and had a promising good time. He’d gently kissed my hand good night and asked if he could see me again. I couldn’t tell Ross the truth. Not yet. There was too much at stake for me. “Ross, I’m way too busy with this new job and acclimating to this big city to find time for romance.” “I see,” he said, sounding ragged and worn. There was a long, awkward pause. I leaned against the kitchen wall and slowly slid down to the floor. “Why do you ask me this?” I said. “Because I’m tired,” he said. I could feel his defeat. “I want my life back. I go to work, I keep up the house, go to meetings and out in service. But it’s all drudgery.”

• From Shunned (2018)

  This time, they would not see me to the gate. Everyone got out of the car and stood to watch Dad get my suitcase from the back. Despite the mix of anguish and disgust on each of their faces, they each gave me a firm hug. “Goodbye,” I said. They stood side by side in front of the car and watched me walk away. I had to detach from what was happening in order to move forward. I felt like I was playing a part in a play and this was where the script said, “EXIT STAGE LEFT.” I drifted through the airport entrance in a trance, arriving at my gate with surprise, unable to recall checking in or going through security. I wandered aimlessly through the shops, suspended between worlds, floating between the old and new, grief and joy, certainty and ambiguity. My old life was over. There was no turning back. If the black hooded riders showed up tomorrow, I’d be in trouble—my list of sins was growing longer. Satan and his demons might be off somewhere, celebrating the victory over my soul. Over the next several hours, though, as the plane soared east, these worries lost their luster. What’s done is done, I thought. Whatever happened next, I knew I could manage. When the airplane approached Chicago, flying above the shoreline of Lake Michigan, I caught sight of the city lights outlining the many harbors and high-rises, and my heart heard the bell tone and fluttered with recognition. With some concentration, I could just make out my apartment building. There’s my place. My place. My Place. “Ladies and gentlemen,” came the flight attendant’s voice across the audio system. “If Chicago is not your final destination, please consult the gate agent for connecting information.” The plane veered right, away from Lake Michigan, following the continuous string of car headlights on the Kennedy to O’Hare. Was Chicago my final destination? Who could predict? But something seemed different. For the first time, landing there felt like home. Chapter 17 You must learn one thing. The world was made to be free in. Give up all the other worlds except the one to which you belong. —David Whyte The door to the Kingdom Hall creaked as I pulled it open and entered the quiet, empty foyer. Ray Thomas came through the open door of a small back room to greet me. He reached out to shake my hand. “We’re going to meet in the library.” I followed him there. Jeremy Schwartz and another man stood as I entered the small room. “Nice to see you again, Linda,” Jeremy said, his eyes kind as he took my extended hand and held it briefly between his palms. “But I wish it were under different circumstances.

• From Shunned (2018)

  And when he said, “The kingdom of heaven is in your midst,” I think he meant that the ability to create our world and our experience is within us—through our perceptions in each moment. These thoughts reverberated through me as Ove concluded his talk by encouraging us to bow our heads in prayer. Bob and I respectfully complied, but I was too consumed by my own emotional swirl to hear anything he said. We did not echo the “amen” of the audience. In this, we were observers, not participants. Ove sat down. Dad took the podium one last time and invited everyone to gather in the fireside room for refreshments. The Muzak came back on, signaling the program’s end. The cousins in the front row were reaching out to hug me, and I was thrilled to be introduced to their children but preoccupied by the close proximity of my brother. Bob took those moments to introduce himself to Randy, and they were chatting when I turned around. Randy, Marlene, and Tyler were standing side by side, looking at me. “Randy,” I said, sliding both knees onto the seat so I could get close enough to give him a hug. We met for a long embrace, and when I started to pull back, Randy continued his hold. Then I felt the oddest sensation, as if an arrow of energy shot from his heart to mine. It was robust and unexpected, a transfer of grief and regret. It made my eyes sting. As I pulled away and looked him in the eye, I could see he, too, was dewy-eyed but smiling. His smile held an ambivalent mix of desire and reticence, as if he enjoyed the moment but feared he might shatter into pieces if I looked too closely or for too long. We both took a second to collect ourselves. Like most of the men in the room, he was wearing a suit and tie. His black hair was gray at the temples. Where do we start after twelve years with no communication? My thinking was muddled. I hugged Marlene and shook Tyler’s hand. He was the same age as my stepson, Will. The blond hair of his childhood had darkened to a sandy tone; he wore it in the same conservative style as my brother, cut short and parted down one side. “You’ve grown up, Tyler,” I said. “I don’t really remember you,” Tyler said, not unkindly but with the refreshing honesty of youth. It was a difficult thing to hear. The sad truth is, I had no relationship with my brother’s youngest child. “Of course you wouldn’t,” I said. “The last time I saw you, you were barely five years old. And now you’re a teenager.” “Yeah,” Randy said, now with a sarcastic grin on his face.

• From Shunned (2018)

  Bob grabbed my hand as we walked to the car. I unlocked the doors and slipped behind the steering wheel. Bob got in and pulled his seat belt into place. Looking back toward the house, I saw everyone standing on the front steps, watching us leave. We both waved as I turned on the ignition, put the car in gear, and drove away. The reprieve was officially over. Death Exemption 2006 had run its course. Epilogue: The Death Exemption, 2010 If your everyday practice is to open to all your emotions, to all the people you meet, to all the situations you encounter without closing down, trusting that you can do that, then that will take you as far as you can go. And then you will understand all the teachings that anyone has ever taught. —Pema Chödrön Four years passed before I saw my parents again. True to the détente we had worked out over the years, the occasion was another death exemption. It was a Sunday morning in March. My parents had flown in to the Bay Area the night before. I’d picked them up at their hotel and driven here. I’d presumed the next death exemption would be to memorialize one of them. Instead, I was grieving the well-lived, all-too-short life of my beloved Bob. Mom and Dad had accepted my invitation to attend his service. His decline was swift and shocking. It began when he took a hard fall in the wee hours of the night, stumbling over a bathrobe belt that had fallen from our bed. His back never felt right after that. He experienced the sensation of his spine being stuck in places, like well-worn piano keys that fail to rise back to their original position. A back specialist was consulted to help us resolve this nuisance. An MRI revealed a spine riddled with a white, cotton-looking substance. Bob didn’t need back surgery. He needed an oncologist. The oncologist arranged for a barrage of diagnostic tests, and twelve days later we learned Bob had Stage Four cancer of the esophagus. We stumbled into the alternate universe of medical care for the seriously ill, a yawning vortex where time contorts and folds inside itself, stretching into a nonlinear black hole. After reviewing Bob’s case with a panel of other doctors, the oncologist said Bob’s disease was highly treatable and felt Bob was plenty strong to endure chemotherapy. The graveness of the situation was not lost on us, but, inherently optimistic, Bob and I latched on to the phrase “highly treatable” and proceeded as recommended. We both believed in the body’s creative capacity to regenerate and surprise us. We assumed we were in for a lousy six months of treatment, to be followed by a period of rebuilding his strength and well-being. Life would be forever altered, but life would go on. Instead, Bob died sixty-two days after receiving his diagnosis.

• From Shunned (2018)

  “I assure you, if we ever need anything, you’re not someone we would come to for help.” She let go with her hand and turned to face the road. We drove the last few miles in silence, until Dad slowed and stopped at the curb. This time, they would not see me to the gate. Everyone got out of the car and stood to watch Dad get my suitcase from the back. Despite the mix of anguish and disgust on each of their faces, they each gave me a firm hug. “Goodbye,” I said. They stood side by side in front of the car and watched me walk away. I had to detach from what was happening in order to move forward. I felt like I was playing a part in a play and this was where the script said, “EXIT STAGE LEFT.” I drifted through the airport entrance in a trance, arriving at my gate with surprise, unable to recall checking in or going through security. I wandered aimlessly through the shops, suspended between worlds, floating between the old and new, grief and joy, certainty and ambiguity. My old life was over. There was no turning back. If the black hooded riders showed up tomorrow, I’d be in trouble—my list of sins was growing longer. Satan and his demons might be off somewhere, celebrating the victory over my soul. Over the next several hours, though, as the plane soared east, these worries lost their luster. What’s done is done , I thought. Whatever happened next, I knew I could manage. When the airplane approached Chicago, flying above the shoreline of Lake Michigan, I caught sight of the city lights outlining the many harbors and high-rises, and my heart heard the bell tone and fluttered with recognition. With some concentration, I could just make out my apartment building. There’s my place. My place. My Place. “Ladies and gentlemen,” came the flight attendant’s voice across the audio system. “If Chicago is not your final destination, please consult the gate agent for connecting information.” The plane veered right, away from Lake Michigan, following the continuous string of car headlights on the Kennedy to O’Hare. Was Chicago my final destination? Who could predict? But something seemed different. For the first time, landing there felt like home. Chapter 17 [image "Images" file=Image00000.jpg] You must learn one thing. The world was made to be free in. Give up all the other worlds except the one to which you belong. —David Whyte T he door to the Kingdom Hall creaked as I pulled it open and entered the quiet, empty foyer. Ray Thomas came through the open door of a small back room to greet me. He reached out to shake my hand. “We’re going to meet in the library.” I followed him there. Jeremy Schwartz and another man stood as I entered the small room.

• From Shunned (2018)

  I was so happy to see her, standing there, smiling, in her quilted bathrobe and slippers. When I carried my suitcase into my old bedroom, I found a WELCOME HOME sign tacked up at each corner of the closet. It felt magical, a rainbow of bright metallic colors strung together, as if the letters were dancing arm in arm, saluting me. No one had ever done something like that for me, and I understood what it must feel like to celebrate one’s birthday or discover an unexpected surprise in one’s honor. “That was Lory’s idea,” Dad said, popping his head in to call me to dinner. Mom, Dad, Lory, and I sat around the kitchen table, slurping soup, chatting idly about this and that. Ove had gone to conduct the meeting at the Kingdom Hall and was expected to drop by later to say hello and take Lory home. “Where’s Randy?” I asked, realizing no one had uttered a word about my brother since my arrival. Lory stopped chewing. “We’re not going to see him, I’m afraid.” Mom’s voice was weary. Dad shook his head as she spoke, staring into his soup bowl. “They’ve decided to skip this trip,” he said, still looking down. My chest tightened, and I swallowed hard. “Because of me?” I asked, looking from person to person, seeing confirmation in each downcast expression. Just then, bread popped out of the toaster. No one moved. “They’re boycotting Black Butte because of me?” The annoyed looks on their faces told me Randy’s decision was controversial. I surmised it had generated a fair amount of consternation among them in the days leading up to my arrival. The entire family had always gone to Black Butte together. It would be a completely different experience without the presence of my niece and nephew, giggling at the pool, having tickle fights before bedtime, letting me give them piggyback rides to the clubhouse, Sheena sitting in front of me at the fire, asking for a “rub back.” I could feel my cheeks warming. “Maybe I should stop in to see them before we leave tomorrow,” I said, grasping at the high road. Randy lived just a few blocks from my parents. The corners of Mom’s mouth sank at the suggestion. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” she said. “Randy made a point that he would avoid our home during your visit, and that you were not welcome to go there.” My throat stung. “Wow,” I said. I felt like a large hammer had just pounded me into place. It was a curt reminder of what I was going to face from each of them.

• From Shunned (2018)

  But this is not to say that we aren’t happy about your marriage. We all hope for the time when we get to meet Bob and enjoy both of you. Of course, this all depends on whether you can make room in your heart to set things straight between you and Jehovah. I am sure this is far from your mind right now but will always be something we hope for. In the meantime, you are in our minds and hearts and especially so on October 4. Love you always, Dad and Mom In the end, this letter was the best thing that could have happened to ensure a happy wedding day. Of course I cried my eyes out upon first reading it. On the second reading, I flamed with anger at her judgments, believing my relationship with God was none of her damn business. By the twentieth or thirtieth reading, I surrendered and found relief. The question of their presence was resolved; I could make peace with their absence and move on. I had always known their attendance was a stretch. And my mother was right about one thing: on your wedding day, you want to be surrounded only by unconditional love and support. Since they were unable to provide that, it was not their place to be there. In the final weeks before our wedding, I found a joy and lightheartedness that comes solely with true acceptance and love. The day before the ceremony, we received a large box from them, filled with wedding gifts. There was a rustic platter, a bottle of Oregon pinot noir, and a card. Lory enclosed a letter to Bob, welcoming him to the family and complimenting him on his choice in me. Linda is an equal mix of our parents. Frank is a storyteller, and Ruth is gracious, loved by all. On your wedding day, I wish you all the happiness the world has to offer. We had a blast at our wedding. I felt connected to everyone there by a deep bond, sensing the presence of my “soul family,” a heart connection that transcends DNA. I missed my parents, but the only tears I shed that day were tears of joy. I was completely swept away by my love for Bob. A few weeks later, we sent my parents a card thanking them for their gifts, and I included the wedding picture I now held in my hands, elegantly framed in silver. Mom had set the table with place mats and cloth napkins and invited me to take a seat. Dad poured us more coffee and joined me. Mom placed large bowls of fruit and oatmeal in front of us and then sat down. “Dad, would you like to say the prayer?” she said, as Dad and I both became sheepishly aware that we had already started eating, chunks of pineapple and grapes in our mouths.

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  32 The chariot and the charioteer of Israel is gone, he concluded, a biblical phrase that echoed Elisha’s distress as the prophet Elijah was taken up to heaven: Luther had been a prophet, a second Elijah who had led his people. Luther’s image itself became a vital part of his memorial. After his death two artists had been summoned to paint his corpse, one of them Lucas Furtennagel from Augsburg. Plaster casts were made of his hands and his face—the hands, as Johann Albrecht put it, that wrote so many marvelous books—which today are kept in the church at Halle, where, by a fine irony, Albrecht of Mainz had once housed one of the largest and most splendid collections of saints’ relics. 33 The funeral itself became a media event. Broadsheets and pamphlets with his image, made familiar by years of Cranach workshop portraits, were published en masse, poignantly invoking Luther’s presence once more. Physicality, so central to Luther’s religiosity, was reflected in the way Lutherans mourned: The ceremonies focused on his body. The memorial pamphlet did not shrink from giving all the details of Luther’s death, even down to his visits to the privy. 70. Martin Luther’s death mask, which is still on display in the Marktkirche in Halle. By having the plaster casts made, the city had staked its claim to become a Lutheran pilgrimage site. — S HORTLY after Luther died, some of the evangelical princes and towns took up arms in the war of the Schmalkaldic League. The Protestants were defeated by the Emperor, who was in alliance with Duke Moritz of Saxony, Duke Georg’s nephew, who, although a Lutheran, was canny enough not to resist imperial power. At the decisive battle of Mühlberg in 1547, both Philip of Hesse and Luther’s ruler, Elector Johann Friedrich, were captured and imprisoned, and in the humiliating terms that ended the war, the Elector ceded his title to Moritz. The Albertine branch now took over most of the electoral territories, including Wittenberg and its university, while the other line had to content itself with a court at Weimar. 71. Bust of Luther in the same church. In the middle of its side balcony Luther’s face stands in sculpted relief against the mannerist background of leaves, fruit, and patterns. Around the roundel is written Pestis eram vivus moriens ero mors tua papa —Living I was your plague, dying I will be your death, O Pope. The legacy of the Protestant defeat was long-lasting throughout German lands, for Charles V punished their disobedience severely. The governments of proud imperial cities like Augsburg were reformed, and a new political system was established in which small groups of mainly Catholic patricians could now dominate local politics, while all political power was removed from the guilds.

• From Vision Quest (1979)

  She wasn’t and isn’t terribly religious, so more than that it was probably habit and faith in an old acquaintance that kept her with him. It just happened that after she married Dad and moved to Spokane this doctor decided to open a big clinic here. Finally, when I was fifteen, the naturopath died. Mom didn’t know any other doctors, so she went to Dad’s. Although he never bought the line himself, Dad kept quiet about Mom’s naturopathy for all those years. He just paid the bills. Dad’s doctor referred Mom to a gynecologist, who told her she was crazy for not getting a hysterectomy fourteen years before. So she got one. And after she rested awhile she felt great. I don’t know if she felt less a woman. I remember one thing from the days of her sickness—I’ll never forget it. I was playing Pop Warner football then. I was in the seventh or eighth grade. Our season was over and I got voted most valuable player. I was a really big bastard for a seventh or eighth grader, so it wasn’t surprising. But it was still a pretty big deal for me. I ran home about a thousand miles an hour to tell Mom and show her my trophy. I blasted in the door and saw all the lights were off. I figured she might be sleeping, so I walked quietly into her bedroom. Outside it was a beautiful fall afternoon, and inside there was my mother with her curtains all drawn up tight, curled up like a little animal in her bed, holding her pelvis and crying. I burst into tears. I must have scared her. I ran up and jumped on her bed and probably half crushed her. I just hugged her and cried like a little kid. All I said was, “I’m sorry you don’t feel good, Mom.” I just kept saying that. She probably couldn’t hear me anyway through all my blubbering. After a while I showed her my trophy. Mom said she was feeling better and that she thought the trophy was great. Then I went downstairs and cried by the furnace, where Dad used to beat on me when I was little. I fell on the floor like I was having a fit. I remember the concrete was cold at first but got really warm. If that doctor were alive today I’d kill the cocksucker with my bare hands. After Mom got feeling good she took a job in the china and glassware department of the Bon Marché. In about six months she became a buyer. I think maybe what happened is that she had been sick for such a long time that finally feeling good was like becoming a new person. She started making friends at work and really got into her job. That’s when she started falling away from us. None of us was home much.

• From Shunned (2018)

  Conversation was sparse, the mood one of quiet resignation—everyone lost in private thoughts. From time to time, Mom or Lory would ask a question, trying to get their minds around the root cause of this situation. “Did Ross push you to work so you could afford to buy a house?” “No, Mother. That was my idea.” “We knew there was tension between you—was it over The Truth?” “Sometimes yes, sometimes no.” The questions painted a picture of their suspicions about all the elements leading to my spiritual demise: that I was first led astray by the glamour of my job, which demanded an inordinate amount of my time and wore down my Christian defenses through close proximity to worldly people; my professional success then preyed upon my ego, which remained unsatisfied, and stimulated a desire for material goods; and once I made enough money to live on my own, I blithely discarded my marriage. They implied that if Ross had been a stronger spiritual head—his God-given role in the Christian family—I might not have drifted so far so fast. Everyone had the hundred-mile-stare of emotional exhaustion. There was tut-tutting and hand wringing, but it wasn’t aggressive or done with the intent to persuade me. That would come later. We were all aware of the next steps for me: a judicial hearing with the elders in Chicago. As with the process for approving candidates for baptism, a coterie of three elders would convene, to assure a balance of opinion and break any tied decisions, and would make a very deliberate effort to find any sign of shame or remorse on my part, not taking pleasure in rebuking anyone. That night, I slept in my old bedroom. Warm memories of childhood pressed in on me. This was once a place of rest and refuge, the room where I played with Barbie dolls, sang Earth, Wind & Fire songs into my hairbrush, and first applied frosted blue eye shadow. It was where I started keeping a journal, finding my voice through writing, dreaming of the day I’d grow up to be an adult, a grown woman. It was where Mom told us bedtime Bible stories, and where I said my nighttime prayers. Lory’s WELCOME HOME sign was still hanging over the closet. I took it down and folded the letters like an accordion on top of one another, placing it in my suitcase for safekeeping. “It’s not too late, Lindy,” Mom implored the next morning. We sat next to each other in the backseat of the car on the way to the airport. Dad drove and Lory sat in the passenger seat in front of me. “You can turn this whole thing around. Just look at your sister.

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  In May 1531, Luther wrote a last letter to his mother, Margarethe, as she lay dying. He said little about the afterlife and nothing about her seeing her dead husband or lost children again; rather, he reminded her that her present suffering was nothing compared to that suffered by the godless “when one person is beheaded, another burned, a third drowned.” Her illness was sent by God’s grace and bore no comparison with what Christ had suffered for us. For modern readers, who often find it difficult to confront death, Luther’s frank refusal to pretend that all will be well, and his willingness to refer to gruesome executions at such a moment, are astonishing. Yet he prided himself on his ability to comfort the dying.43 Luther was both wise and practical about death and mourning. When Cranach’s artistically gifted and beloved son Hans died in Italy, Luther tried to ease his parents’ feelings of guilt, telling them that “I would be as much to blame as you, because I also advised him to go [to Italy].” He told his old friend to be calm: “God wants to break your will, because he attacks where it hurts most, for our mortification.” Hans, he went on, was a good lad who died before the evil of the world overcame him. Here too his advice follows a careful progression, first recognizing the parents’ feelings of responsibility, next confronting their agony directly, and then turning toward God. He ended by admonishing Cranach and his wife not to mourn and weep excessively, but to “eat and drink,” and take care of themselves so that they may serve others: “Grief and care only crush your bones.”44 And when his beloved daughter Magdalena fell mortally ill, he sent a cart to his son Hans’s school to bring him home at once, because “they loved each other very much.” Luther was distraught on her death, yet two months later he was ordering Hans to “overcome his tears in a manly way,” and refusing to allow him to return home, perhaps because he feared that if Hans gave way to grief he would suffer melancholy.45 —WHEN Luther famously burned the papal bull and the books of canon law outside the Elster Gate in Wittenberg in December 1520, he overturned all the rules that governed marriage and sexuality. Thus from the start, the new Church was confronted with all the personal dilemmas that flowed from allowing divorce, rethinking incest, and redefining marriage as a secular matter, not a sacrament. He put Scripture in the place of Church law but, as his attitude to the Anabaptists revealed, he was not prepared to rely on that absolutely, either. Instead he relied on faith, a great wellspring for a preacher, but a shaky foundation for a church.

• From Shunned (2018)

  It was unsustainable. Drastic measures were inevitable. I’d always known it. I wasn’t convinced God was as conditional as this man-made system, but there would be time to sort that out later. I walked home, determined and clear again. At one o’clock in the afternoon, Portland time, Mom answered the phone. “Are you sitting down?” I asked. I was pacing back and forth in my kitchen. “I’m ready for whatever you have to say,” Mom said, her voice wobbly and thin. I told her the verdict. She just sighed. “Well, Lindy,” she said, “you’re getting what you deserve.” It was a painful thing to hear, despite my clarity. “Just remember,” she said, “there is always, always room for you to return to Jehovah. If you ever decide to make your peace with Him, you’ll have our full support.” Comments like that are what make this easy for me. I’ll miss my family, but I won’t miss being pounded with these warped ultimatums. Can this be love? She said goodbye and gave the phone to my dad. He must have been sitting nearby, because she didn’t need to call out for him. “I gather the news is not good,” Dad said. “I’ll write you both every once in a while, Dad, so you know what I’m up to and don’t have to worry about me.” “Don’t forget our phone number,” he said, resigned and forlorn. “Nor you mine.” “Mom wants the phone back. Goodbye, Lindy.” Goodbye. Goodbye. In the background, I heard him scold her for rushing him. “Lindy,” Mom said, “be sure to call your sister.” “Yes, Mother. I plan to.” “You owe her that after all the support she’s given you.” “I’ll do it, Mother, because I want to, not because I owe her.” I was tempted to quote her the Scripture ‘do not you people be owing anyone a single thing except to love one another’ but thought better of it. It was no time to quibble. After she hung up the phone, I sat mesmerized by the dial tone in my ear. It became hollow and distant as it followed her and Dad on their way, like those white lines left in the sky behind airplanes, blurring in the blueness, eventually fading. My sister was out of town, and we were not able to speak for several days. I was at the office when we finally connected. I slipped into an empty conference room to use the phone. By the time I reached her, I knew Mom would have delivered the news. I was disappointed when Ove answered the phone. I’d hoped to avoid speaking with him. “You’re denying Jehovah and choosing Satan as your god,” he said. Enough already! “And one more thing,” he said, and his voice was softer, as if he’d caught himself. “Your mother is devastated. We all are. You must never doubt how much we care for you.” “I’ve never doubted that.” I was not able to meet his moment of vulnerability.

• From The Battle for God (2000)

  39 Sorush is often harassed by the more conservative clerics, but his popularity suggests that the Islamic republic is moving toward a postrevolutionary phase that will bring it closer to the West. This seemed clear on May 23, 1997, when Hojjat ol-Islam Seyyed Khatami came to the presidency in a landslide victory, gaining 22 million out of a possible 30 million votes. He immediately made it clear that he wanted to achieve a more positive relationship with the Western world, and in September 1998, he dissociated his government from the fatwa against Salman Rushdie. This was later endorsed by the Faqih, Ayatollah Khameini. Khatami still finds his reforms impeded by the Council of Guardians, but his election signaled the deep desire of a large segment of the population for greater pluralism, a gentler interpretation of Islamic law, economic protection for the “downtrodden,” and more progressive policies for women. * There is no retreat from Islam. Iranians still seem to want their polity to be contained within a Shii package, which seems to have made modern values more acceptable than when they were regarded as a foreign import. It could be that if a radical religious movement is allowed its head, works through its aggressions and resentment, it can learn to interact creatively with other traditions, eschew the violence of the more recent past, and make peace with former foes. Religion becomes most violent when suppressed. This had become clear in Egypt in 1981, when the Western world was grieved to hear of the assassination of President Anwar Sadat by Sunni fundamentalists. Sadat had been officiating on October 6 at the parade celebrating the achievements of the 1973 war against Israel. Suddenly, one of the trucks in the parade pulled out of line just in front of the presidential stand, and when Sadat saw First Lieutenant Khaled Islambouli jump out and run toward him, he stood up, assuming that the officer wanted to salute him. But instead there was a volley of machine-gun fire. Islambouli shot round after round into the body of Sadat, even after he had himself been wounded in the stomach, shouting, “Give me that dog, that infidel!” The attack lasted only fifty seconds, but seven people besides Sadat were killed, and twenty-eight others injured. Westerners were shocked by the ferocity of the assault. They had liked Sadat. Unlike Khomeini, Sadat was a Muslim ruler they could understand. He seemed devout without being a “fanatic”; Westerners admired his peace initiative with Israel and his Open Door policy. A bevy of American and European princes, politicians, and presidents attended Sadat’s funeral. No Arab leaders came, however, and there were no crowds lining the streets.

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  This conviction now underpinned all his thinking. The Diet was overshadowed by his inner turmoil and his grief. When he heard the news of his father’s death, he seized a copy of the Psalms and rushed to his room, where he wept all day; the next day he suffered from a crippling headache. He had had a dream in which a big tooth fell out, and he now decided that it had signified his father’s death. 17 “Such a father, from whom the Father of [all] mercies has brought me forth,” he wrote to Melanchthon on June 5, “and through whose sweat [the Creator] has fed and raised me to whatever I am [now].” 18 As he had earlier written to comfort his seriously ill father, “God gave you a strong and hard body up till now.” 19 Yet just a few years before his death he had gone bankrupt, and had been employed as a manager in someone else’s firm for a mere fifty guilders a year—half his son’s basic salary. 20 Despite the earlier years of struggle with Hans, now Luther remembered his love and was well aware how alike they were. He owed much of his temperament to his father, through whom God had “finxit”— formed or shaped might capture the meaning better than raised —“whatever I am.” He also knew that the loss of his father was a coming of age for him: He was now, he remarked, “the oldest Luther in my family.” — M EANWHILE the movement he had inspired seemed detached from its founder. In Augsburg, the Lutherans faced a long wait for the emperor’s appearance. The Saxon Elector had been the first prince to arrive in early May, and rumors circulated that the emperor might not get to the Diet before June. Philip of Hesse was one of the next princes to appear. He still seemed to be wavering between the Lutherans and Zwingli, and the potential loss of such a major, dynamic politician was a serious threat. 21 Luther insisted that his followers must remain firm against the Zwinglians and sacramentarians who had “trodden the sacrament underfoot”; he advised the Elector to attend Catholic Mass publicly so that the sacramentarians would not be able to boast that he was on their side. 22 This move only isolated the Lutherans further from the local population, and in turn contributed to their sense of embattlement as they waited and saw the sacramentarians exercising a powerful influence over the Augsburg population.

• From The Battle for God (2000)

  When the Prophet Muhammad died in 632, he had made no arrangements for the succession, and his friend Abu Bakr was elected to the caliphate by a majority of the ummah. Some believed, however, that Muhammad would have wished to be succeeded by his closest male relative, Ali ibn Abi Talib, who was his ward, cousin, and son-in-law. But Ali was continually passed over in the elections, until he finally became the fourth caliph in 656. The Shiis, however, do not recognize the rule of the first three caliphs, and call Ali the First Imam (“Leader”). Ali’s piety was beyond question, and he wrote inspiring letters to his officers, stressing the importance of just rule. He was, however, tragically assassinated by a Muslim extremist in 661, an event mourned by Sunnis and Shiis alike. His rival, Muawiyyah, seized the caliphate throne, and established the more worldly Umayyad dynasty, based in Damascus. Ali’s eldest son, Hasan, whom Shiis call the Second Imam, retired from politics and died in Medina in 669. But in 680, when Caliph Muawiyyah died, there were huge demonstrations in Kufa in Iraq in favor of Ali’s second son, Husain. To avoid Umayyad reprisals, Husain sought sanctuary in Mecca, but the new Umayyad caliph, Yazid, sent emissaries to the holy city to assassinate him, violating the sanctity of Mecca. Husain, the Third Shii Imam, decided that he must take a stand against this unjust and unholy ruler. He set out for Kufa with a small band of fifty followers, accompanied by their wives and children, believing that the poignant spectacle of the Prophet’s family marching in opposition to tyranny would bring the ummah back to a more authentic practice of Islam. But on the holy fast day of Ashura, the tenth of the Arab month of Muharram, Umayyad troops surrounded Husain’s little army on the plain of Kerbala outside Kufa and slaughtered them all. Husain was the last to die, with his infant son in his arms.26 The Kerbala tragedy would develop its own cult and become a myth, a timeless event in the personal life of every Shii. Yazid has become an emblem of tyranny and injustice; by the tenth century, Shiis mourned the martyrdom of Husain annually on the fast day of Ashura, weeping, beating their bodies, and declaring their undying opposition to the corruption of Muslim political life. Poets sang epic dirges in honor of the martyrs, Ali and Husain. Shiis thus developed a piety of protest, centering on the mythos of Kerbala. The cult has kept alive a passionate yearning for social justice that is at the core of the Shii vision. When Shiis walk in solemn procession during the Ashura rituals, they declare their determination to follow Husain and even to die in the struggle against tyranny.27

• From The Lover (1984)

  Then went and gambled the money away in a baccarat club in Paris. The woods were lost in one night. The point at which my memory suddenly softens, and perhaps my brother brings tears to my eyes, is after the loss of the money from the woods. I know he’s found lying in his car in Montparnasse, outside the Coupole, and that he wants to die. After that, I forget. What she did, my mother, with that chateau of hers, is simply unimaginable, still all for the sake of the elder son, the child of fifty incapable of earning any money. She buys some electric incubators and installs them in the main drawing room. Suddenly she’s got six hundred chicks, forty square meters of them. But she made a mistake with the infrared rays, and none of the chicks can eat, all six hundred of them have beaks that don’t meet or won’t close, they all starve to death and she gives up. I came to the chateau while the chicks were hatching, there were great rejoicings. Afterwards the stench of the dead chicks and their food was so awful I couldn’t eat in my mother’s chateau without throwing up. She died between Dô and him she called her child, in her big bedroom on the first floor, where during heavy frosts she used to put the sheep to sleep, five or six sheep all around her bed, for several winters, her last. It’s there, in that last house, the one on the Loire, when she finally gives up her ceaseless to-ing and fro-ing, that I see the madness clearly for the first time. I see my mother is clearly mad. I see that Dô and my brother have always had access to that madness. But that I, no, I’ve never seen it before. Never seen my mother in the state of being mad. Which she was. From birth. In the blood. She wasn’t ill with it, for her it was like health, flanked by Dô and her elder son. No one else but they realized. She always had lots of friends, she kept the same friends for years and years and was always making new ones, often very young, among the officials from upcountry, or later on among the people in Touraine, where there were some who had retired from the French colonies. She always had people around her, all her life, because of what they called her lively intelligence, her cheerfulness, and her peerless, indefatigable poise. I don’t know who took the photo with the despair. The one in the courtyard of the house in Hanoi. Perhaps my father, one last time. A few months later he’d be sent back to France because of his health. Before that he’d go to a new job, in Phnom Penh. He was only there a few weeks. He died in less than a year. My mother wouldn’t go back with him to France, she stayed where she was, stuck there.

• From Christianity: The First Three Thousand Years (2009)

  gravediggers, and there were other gravediggers unnamed.13 In Rome, towards the end of the second century, the Church was already acquiring rights to excavate tunnels for burial in the soft tufa stone of the region, the first Christian catacombs – not refuges from persecution, as pious Counter- Reformation Catholics assumed in the sixteenth century, just places for decent and eternal rest (see Plate 2). The whole system of catacombs in Rome (named after one particular complex of tunnels beside the Appian Way in a sunken valley, In catacumbas, knowledge of which survived when all the others were forgotten) eventually extended over sixty-eight square miles and house an estimated 875,000 burials made between the second and ninth centuries.14 What is interesting about the earliest of these burials is the relative lack of social or status differentiation in them: bishops had no more distinguished graves than others, apart from a simple marble plaque to record basic details such as a name. This was a sign of a sense of commonality, where poor and powerful might be all one in the sight of the Saviour. The picture was already changing by the mid- third century, when it becomes apparent that wealthier members of the Church wanted to make more of an artistic splash with elaborate wall paintings or expensive sculpted stone coffins.15 The upper classes were beginning to arrive at church. The Christian sense of certainty in belief was especially concentrated in their celebration of constancy in suffering, even to death. From time to time, they faced mob harassment and official persecution, which in the worst cases ended in public executions preceded by prolonged torture and ritual humiliation, the victims stripped naked in front of a gleeful crowd in sporting arenas. Among the early victims were such Christian leaders as Peter, Paul, Ignatius of Antioch and Polycarp of Smyrna, a very old man when he died around 155 and the first Christian to be recorded as having been burned alive. That grisly fate Christians later visited on each other a good deal once they gained access to power, yet alongside a continuing Christian inclination to persecute other Christians, there has survived an intense celebration of martyrdom. The first people whom Christians recognized as saints (that is, people with a sure prospect of Heaven) were victims of persecution who died in agony rather than deny their Saviour, who had died for them in agony on the Cross. Such a death, if suffered in the right spirit (not an easy matter to judge), guarantees entry into Heaven. We have seen how many gnostics questioned this cult of death: it was an important part of their objections to the Church of the Catholic bishops (see p. 125). The attractive feature of a martyr’s death was that it was open to anyone, regardless of social status or talent. Women were martyred alongside men, slaves alongside free persons. The necessary ability was to die bravely and with