Beauty of Life

In the summer of 1999 my father was dying from various virulent and (then) untreatable cancers.  By July we knew the end was near.  It was an unbearably difficult time for all of us but he seemed to take everything with great grace and dignity.  In early July after frantically looking all over the house I finally found him sitting in a chair in the backyard.  “Daddy, what on earth are you doing out here?” He looked at me incredulously, smiled,  and replied: “It’s a beautiful day and I’m enjoying the sunshine.”  I was hardly able to hold back tears as I sat next to him and held his hand for a few minutes until he was ready to go back inside.  About a week later again I went looking for him and again he was sitting outside.  But this time there was a gentle but steady late July drizzle.  His wet face was turned up to the sky, his eyes were closed, and he was softly smiling.  I sat next to him again as he said, “Sylvia, you know, until today I had forgotten how delightful it is to feel the rain on my face, my head.  And look,” now he opened his eyes and pointed to trees, the flowers, the grass, “look how they must love this!  This life is so wonderful and mysterious and even with all the pain and fear, I am so lucky to be reminded of its magnificence.”  The rain covered my tears. We sat there for a few minutes until he was ready to go back inside to his hospice bed.   He died the following week.  And this morning, more than twenty years later,  as I ponder the fear and isolation and worry and pain in the world, I also look at the rain and the sun and a lone flower on my gardenia bush.  I think of my dad.  Now,  I too, awe-filled, marvel at the  fragile but powerful beauty of all life.

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