I assumed because my neighbor had just been given morphine, she would fall asleep quickly and I would read quietly until her nurse came in two hours. But according to her caregiver, she had been waiting all day for the visit. Coming into the room, I announced as I always do,

“I am here to annoy you.”

She responded as she always does, her eyes heavy and her voice strained,

I am here to annoy YOU.

And then she laughed her deep throated laugh, rough from years of smoking.

Unsure of how to enter into this space, I first asked her questions, but she faded in and out of the conversation. Then we tried reading various books out loud but none seemed interesting to either of us. So finally I read her my blog about the women wearing bikinis at the river which ends with this line about me wearing an oversized t-shirt, afraid to show my body. When I read that line, she bolted into full consciousness and chastised me. 

That’s just wrong. You do not need to hide your body!

We both laughed and then I failed at a few other attempts to find something meaningful for her without tiring her out even more. Finally, I did the only thing I knew how to do. Since her eyes were closed, I started to softly sing “Near the Cross,” thinking it might be soothing. Her eyes opened, and she smiled. 

You have a beautiful voice.

Because the singing seemed to calm her, I quietly sang other hymns. She drifted off momentarily, and when she woke up after a few hymns, I told her a story about riding my bike to work and bursting into “How Great Thou Art” as the sun rose over the mountains. Then I softly sang the hymn.

When I finished, I told her about a drawing I have of Jesus with someone who had run into his arms, buried their face in his shoulder and been embraced by His love. “That is how I am going to be when I meet him,” I tell her, “I am going to run into His arms and get all wrapped up in His love.”

She opened her eyes wider. And then she looked straight into my eyes

That is how I love you.

When she fell back into slumber I lost it. And I lost it because Jesus promised to live in the least of these, and today He took up residence in my dying friend. When she spoke those words over me, I felt as if Jesus himself had spoken them over me. 

I asked if we could hold hands while she slept, and she replied,

Of course.  I love you.

When my fingers began to fall asleep, I carefully tried to extricate my hand, thinking she would not wake.  But she startled and looked at me as she grabbed my hand more tightly. “I just need to move my hand because my fingers are falling asleep,” I explained. She told me she had thought I was falling and wanted to make sure I was okay. Then she asked me not to leave her side, so I leaned over and whispered quietly, “I’m not going anywhere.” As she turned to get more comfortable, she spoke.

You are precious. I will never forget you in a million years.

“Well,” I replied, “I will not forget you for a million and one years. 

You are such a smart ass. She laughed. And then she fell fast asleep. 

In that quiet room with her struggling breath the only sound, I prayed through my tears  for her sweet relief, that she would pass mercifully into the arms of Jesus, and that she would finally know the love she deserved to know her whole life.  

Maybe this will be her last day on planet earth. I don’t know.

But I do know that waiting for her on the other side is a million and one years of love. I know that the hand that will hold hers will be there for eternity and never tire. 

And I know that her love will be waiting for me when I finally cross over into my next, best life. 

My first encounter with an elaborate and overwhelmingly sad memorial was for the death of my father when I was 16. After the pomp and circumstance of a military funeral, he was cremated, and my mother kept his ashes in the cupboard for years waiting for the right place to inter his ashes.

Sometimes she would still get phone calls for him, and she would say, “I’m sorry; he can’t come to the phone right now,” as she glanced over at the door of the cupboard that held his remains. A headstone at a military cemetery in Denver finally became his permanent resting place, and her intent was to be placed beside him after her death.
We did honor her wishes when she passed, but we also kept some of her ashes and gathered as a family at the river she loved to spread them. Months later, my brother and I purchased a stone memorial bench and placed it next to the Poudre River with her name and an inscription that simply said, “She loved this river and this park.”

I thought about that bench as my husband and I hiked parks in the southeastern section of Vancouver Island last week. No matter the park, at every beautiful vista or every serene scene, a bench waited, each with an inscription for someone’s beloved.

I stopped and read who was remembered at every single bench. Some lived many years. Some died very young. All were honored by the words left in their names. As I read through the inscriptions, I realized I was reading about people I probably would have loved had I met them on the trail.

Because people you meet on the trail are never strangers. They smile readily and share easily. Moments of conversation on the trail, however brief, create a micro community where scraps of stories get shared and love flows between with nature the common bond.

We stop and ask directions from a young woman getting a respite as a mom from a busy four-year-old. Before we head on our way again we have learned that she and her husband are expanding their 600 square-foot cabin, but it will not need to be bigger because they do not need to accommodate the child that never made it to birth.

When she points to the direction we need to head, a bench waits there in the forest.

A woman stops to pet our dog on the trail, and we learn about the loss of her beloved dog and hiking companion of 15 years. She tells us that today is the first day that she is able to go out of the house and walk these trails he loved, and she is letting herself be happy at the memory and weep for the loss. And we weep with her.

I glance back at her disappearing form, and at a bend overlooking the river, a bench is waiting.

I can not help but think about the prayer, “May their memory be a blessing.” In the Jewish tradition that means that we focus on how a memory helps us bring warmth, joy, and purpose to the living and calls for a commitment to bring forward the values of the person who died.

All of those ideals live in these benches.

The memories etched on these benches have held those inhaling a shared joy of wild places.

The memories etched on these benches have provided shared respite for those weary in body or soul and seeking a moment of peace.

The memories etched on these benches have held the shared tears of those with hearts broken from grief and needing comfort.

I did not know a single name on a single bench on a single trail I hiked those seven days. But they became alive to me through our shared love of wilderness places.

Through the words written by family and friends I learned why they were treasured. I learned of their hopes and dreams and what they valued.

And I learned that love is not a static thing buried underground, but a living, breathing, comforting memory – a blessing from generation to generation.