A quick update:
I'm still here in the Palouse, surrounded by ripening wheat and garbanzo beans awaiting harvest. While they reach their height in the sun, here at my sister's house, we're doing a different kind of waiting. It's an odd thing a family does in the first days of grief. Stranger still is the awkwardness of being with that family when not a part of it. Because of the truth of the Psalmist's statement, "My times are in your hands," my brother found himself right in the middle of a family not his own from the first moment of the patriarch's death. He sat in the man's house when the first calls were made, has been present with our brother-in-law and sister in hard moments all week. And due to the geographical logistics of travel, I joined them Friday.
Of course it would be natural to me to think about death in general and this death in particular.
I am more aware than ever of the boundaries of this blog. Though it is right and fair for me to ponder death and God's presence with a person in his last moments, this is not the time. To be respectful of a man I love who is married to my sister whom I dearly love, I have been carefully holding my peace this week. If you know me, you will know exactly what that costs.
In fact, here's how I'd put it: The other night, in order to take minds from the ache of the week, my sister and her family had a game night. We played a ridiculous game of QUELPH (like Cranium on drugs!). At one point, I pulled a card which said I had to speak like a pirate for the rest of the game. Ahoy matey, shivery-timbers, that was hard. So hard, in fact, that it effectively rendered me as close to mute as I have ever been.
Being here this week, consciously NOT writing about this renders me mute in the face of it, like being something foreign to myself. Yes, I'm a silent pirate this week. Praying for those who sail a new sea in a storm of grief, perhaps.