Random Grace

An encounter with strangers at the end of a beautiful life

If you’d rather listen, here’s an audio version of “Random Grace” read by me.

Another amazing sunset

Oh, let’s go sailing on a ship with many sails
We’ll ride the choral beaches
We’ll sing beside the whales

And I feel like I’ve known you forever
As I look at the circles written in the sea and the sand…
                        --from “Sailing” by Elizabeth Hummel

“My mother is dying,” a man I have never met or spoken with says to me as I walk through the halls of the nursing home. “Right through that door,” he says, waving frantically at the middle of the hallway. He is in his mid-60s. His deep blue eyes are exhausted and red-rimmed. His grey hair is spikey and wild around his face as if he has forgotten to comb it for days. Standing beside him is a large and soft-looking woman in her 30s, his grown daughter. She seems helpless, looking down at the floor, long dark hair falling over her tear-streaked face.

My guitar is slung on my back. I had been on my way home, having just finished playing and singing for some other residents. “Do you want a hug?” I ask. He nods. He sobs silently, shaking in my arms. The daughter looks up and meets my eyes as I hold her father. Her eyes fill with tears.

I ask them if they would like me to play some music for his mother—her grandmother. “Yes, that would be so nice,” he answers in a choked voice. I follow the man and his daughter through the double doors and into her room. There are no comments about the weather. The typical pleasantries between strangers are forgotten. We enter that intimate and sacred vibration, the space at the end of a long life.

Like all the residents’ rooms, this one is sparsely furnished. When they move here, they choose a few cherished things to bring from a houseful of possessions, each item connected to a lifetime of memories. On the wall next to her bed is a framed black and white photo of a bride and groom.

It must be the woman lying in bed before me and her husband on their wedding day. They look so young, just kids really. It is the moment right after the wedding, when the couple steps outside the church and are pelted with rice by the guests. His carefully combed and parted hair is messed, a few pieces of rice standing out on the dark waves. His gaze is full of laughter. I imagine the photographer had been a Navy buddy of his who just made a joke. Her veil curls in the breeze around her upturned face like a dancing plume of smoke, and she too is laughing. Her eyes are alight with joy, looking forever to a future that will soon be in the past. 

Happy bride from the same era

My eyes move from the photograph to the woman as she is now, so close to her last breath. She lies with her eyes closed, a soft white puff of hair around a pale, sweet face. I can see the resemblance to the young bride—she is still beautiful, her beauty all the richer because of a life of kindness. At the end of a life, every face tells a story; hers has so clearly been a story of love. Her son kneels on the floor by her bed and buries his head in the blankets, sobbing and stroking his mother’s arm. My heart hurts for him and I want to help ease his pain. I can see he does not know how to let her go, even though he knows it is her time. 

Music is the only magic I know that can possibly help such wrenching pain. I ask the woman if her grandmother likes hymns. She smiles and says, “Oh yes!  Grandma would love that!” She and her father join me in Amazing Grace. The son still sobs at the beginning, but soon he lifts his head. His voice becomes stronger, more assured. He begins to be there for his mother in a way she truly needs. He knows he must let go so she can go in peace. She still wants to soothe him like she did when he a child, but she is being called away. She can only hang on for so long, and it’s easier for her to cross the threshold when he has let go of her. We watch his mother’s face relax and soften. Subtle expressions float over her features as if she is watching a delightful and whimsical movie. It reminds me of sun dancing through leaves, making dappled and intricate patterns, always changing.

When the son asks me to sing another song, I tell him I am thinking of a song I wrote called “Sailing.” I feel this might be the right song for this moment. The son immediately nods and says that theirs is a nautical family—he was in the Merchant Marines, and his brother owns a sailboat. A song about sailing would be perfect. When I start singing Sailing, the mother opens her eyes and keeps them on me for most of the song. I manage to sing it without crying. I focus on loving her, being in the moment with this precious human who has given so much and lived such a full and beautiful life. I only want to sing her through this final passage.

“Thank you…thank you so much…I don’t know what to say,” the son says through his tears as I pack up my guitar. I tell him he doesn’t need to say anything. I think something beyond our understanding must have brought us together. There is so much love in the room! A pale, golden light envelopes us all, a light I have seen and felt before in the moments near the end of a life. All agitation is released, a deep sense of peace suffuses the room. Through the music, the feeling of unbearable tragedy is transformed into something even bigger—and yet lighter and sweeter too. There’s a precious moment when the grief is forgotten, and we’re here in the present. Everything feels normal, just another wonderful day with the family. 

I know there will be more grief and pain in the days to come, and that is okay too. I will probably never see this family again, but I am humbled and honored that they opened this door to me, that they allowed me to bring the music to this powerful and beautiful moment of transition.

Below is a video and recording of my song “Sailing.”