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Nov. 2nd, 2018 02:22 pm
Faithfully departed
Today is All Souls' Day in the RC liturgical calendar. As a fully-indoctrinated young Catholic, I remember this mostly as the day when I prayed for the release of my grandfather from Purgatory. For years, he was the only person I knew personally who had died making him my go-to whenever we were asked to "pray for the poor souls in Purgatory". We didn't just do this on All Souls' Day, but we always did this on All Souls' Day.
I don't know why I don't recall praying for my great-grandmother, who would have died when I was nine years old. Maybe I figured that a kindly octogenarian with one leg who was always in a wheelchair and had to use Sweet 'n Low instead of sugar because of her diabetes couldn't really have any sins worth expiating. Or maybe I figured she had enough people praying for her already. I remember how at her funeral there was one white rose placed in her coffin for every grandchild and one red rose for every great-grandchild and the resulting bouquet took up nearly half of it.
Nowadays, of course, I don't pray for anyone. I still think of them on this day, though, as it is very well timed to put one in mind of transitoriness of all life. Coming home after dark yesterday evening I even put myself through imaging what I would say to Monshu if I could tell him anything. It was remarkably hard to come up with something worthwhile. I think he pretty much knew how much of a struggle surviving him would be for me but also how much I would persevere. If I told him how deeply I appreciate now how much he did for me, he would only nod sagely.
So that basically leaves gossip: Who's stood by me and who's faded away, who popped up again and what they had to say for themselves, etc. He had almost infinite patience for that sort of thing; even on his deathbed his sister was filling him in on people he hadn't seen in years and was never going to see again ever. Of course, this presumes he hasn't achieved some kind of transcendent omniscience which had made him privy to all these developments. Even then, he'd humour me. He was good at that.
I don't know why I don't recall praying for my great-grandmother, who would have died when I was nine years old. Maybe I figured that a kindly octogenarian with one leg who was always in a wheelchair and had to use Sweet 'n Low instead of sugar because of her diabetes couldn't really have any sins worth expiating. Or maybe I figured she had enough people praying for her already. I remember how at her funeral there was one white rose placed in her coffin for every grandchild and one red rose for every great-grandchild and the resulting bouquet took up nearly half of it.
Nowadays, of course, I don't pray for anyone. I still think of them on this day, though, as it is very well timed to put one in mind of transitoriness of all life. Coming home after dark yesterday evening I even put myself through imaging what I would say to Monshu if I could tell him anything. It was remarkably hard to come up with something worthwhile. I think he pretty much knew how much of a struggle surviving him would be for me but also how much I would persevere. If I told him how deeply I appreciate now how much he did for me, he would only nod sagely.
So that basically leaves gossip: Who's stood by me and who's faded away, who popped up again and what they had to say for themselves, etc. He had almost infinite patience for that sort of thing; even on his deathbed his sister was filling him in on people he hadn't seen in years and was never going to see again ever. Of course, this presumes he hasn't achieved some kind of transcendent omniscience which had made him privy to all these developments. Even then, he'd humour me. He was good at that.