May our memories be a blessing

The mysteries of death are at the forefront of my mind this week. It started with the nation's collective vigil during the days Trump abstained from appearing in public, and compounded with the actual deaths of two individuals I've known through my work. 

First the one who didn't die: 

What must it be like to live a life in which millions of people await your death with hungry anticipation, scrolling their phones and hoping against hope for a headline which confirms the theories and rumors? What would that feel like? It's hard to imagine anything more terrible, really. We all want the world we leave behind to spend a few moments grieving our loss. We want people to miss our interactions, to recall the good things we've done across the years, to hope that our passing was smooth. We want to be remembered with affection and gratitude. I literally can't imagine what it would be like to know your death will result in rejoicing across the world, dancing, music, actual tears of joy. My brain can't wrap itself around experiencing this revelation.

One of the people who actually did die is Helen Ryde, a warrior for LGBTQIA+ justice within the Methodist Church and Christianity more widely. Their death was sudden and unexpected, and thousands of people are in mourning.

The other person's death was less shocking. Her name is Trudie Barrares, an author, artist, and encourager. She'd lived long, and had been ill for some time. While not a public figure, her life is a story of outreach and acceptance. Her brilliant mind, depth of wisdom, and insightful eloquence changed the communities around her, and her ability to love through challenging circumstances amazes me. She will be mourned. She will be missed.

What a contrast these two saints are with the man-monster whose death the nation awaits.

I periodically ponder how the transmutation of matter works when a heart stops beating and the mysterious life force leaves, wondering about the potential retention of any kind of conscious beingness. I like to think that the essence of Helen and Trudie escaped into joy, and freedom, and limitless wonder. But what of Trump's eventual passing? Is real joy possible for such a tortured soul? Could there be anything other than shrieking resistance? In the final death moments, I envision Helen and Trudie sighing deeply, relaxing and embracing the mystery they so often contemplated. But him? Whatever remains of his mind will likely be terrified, angry and screaming that the decision must be appealed. How could the jail of death be destined for him? 

I'll turn my mind back to the light soon. Perhaps tomorrow. But for this week so far, and for today, I can't help but contemplate death. 

May Helen and Trudie rest in peace. May their memories be always a blessing.