My brother, Mack, died one year ago yesterday - almost exactly 7 months from the day Renee died. I wasn’t even actively thinking about those losses today. It’s strange how the memory, or at least how my memory, works. There are moments when I can think of little else. On those days, the void left by their passing is insurmountable. It can neither be ignored nor seen with anything other than sorrow – seemingly endless sorrow. And yet, there are other times when memory of them brings to me, perhaps not overflowing joy, but at least some smiles. Of course, I don’t know from day to day which kind of memory to anticipate, which kind of memory to plan for, which kind of memory to make room for in my day.
Today, it seemed like the busy-ness of my schedule was going to allow no room for any memory of any kind. So, I spoke out loud my resolution: “I’ve got way too many other things to do today; so memory – please just let me work.” Perhaps you’ve been there too.
But my resolve was to no avail. Along came a trigger – a random quote on Facebook from JRR Tolkien’s masterpiece, “The Lord of the Rings” - and the memories began to flow, and I found myself searching my desk for a napkin to dry the tears. Perhaps you’ve been there too.
And, ok, I know that not everybody is a fan of “The Lord of the Rings”. If that is you, try to take the “fantasy” out of it, and consider Tolkien’s words as simply being about regular, every day, ordinary people, and about regular, every day, ordinary life and death and loss here on Earth.
But here’s the thing - we may laugh at elves and dragons and wizards – “As if such things could be!”. But really, the “fantasy” is believing that there are actually any regular, every day, ordinary people in our world, or that there is any regular, ordinary, every day life and death and loss in our world. Every person is unbelievably unique and miraculous on this Earth! Each death and loss is uniquely sorrowful and tragic on this Earth.
Tolkien was not simply a man with an imagination. He was a deeply spiritual man, a man of great faith, whose thoughts on life and death, and on what happens after this life, were shaped not only by his Christian faith, but were also influenced by profound loss experienced in war. All of that in him was combined with a mastery of the English language that few now possess, and it resulted in a stream of profound writings – writings that some of us grab hold of to give shape to and words for the sorrows and joys of this life, and even hope for what lies ahead.
Here was my trigger today – a brief exchange between the hobbit, Merry, and the elf, Haldir, while the elf is escorting Merry and the other surviving members of The Fellowship of the Ring into the Kingdom of Lothlorien as they mourn and try to process the death of Gandalf. Or you can think of it as just two people who have experienced a great loss talking. In his grief, Merry says:
“I have never been outside of my own land before. And if I had known what the world outside was like, I don’t think I should have had the heart to leave it.”
“Not even to see fair Lothlorien?”, said Haldir. “The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands loveis now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.”
Love mingled with grief; joy mingled with sorrow - I can understand that. But all of that bringing about, beyond all hope, much that is fair, and made greater still for the price that has been paid? How can this be? These things do not , and cannot go together. My head cannot fathom it. Yet my eyes have seen it; my spirit has lived it these last 19 months. So my heart tells me that this is true - not just in Middle-earth, but in our Earth as well.
Toward the end of the book, after the final, costly victory, the survivors gather to celebrate:
“And all the host laughed and wept, and in the midst of their merriment and tears the clear voice of the minstrel rose like silver and gold, and all men were hushed. And he sang to them…until their hearts, wounded with sweet words, overflowed, and their joy was like swords, and they passed in thought out to regions where pain and delight flow together and tears are the very wine of blessedness.”
Perhaps you’ve been there too.
In the unexpected suddenness of their departures, neither Renee nor Mack had the opportunity to say anything. Not a word, not a sound. There was only silence. And that silence has been terrible as I have wondered and wrestled with what their last message might have been. Now into that silence, I choose to place on their lips, and in my ears, these words of hope – the final words of King Aragorn to his Queen:
“In sorrow we must go, but not in despair. Behold! we are not bound forever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory. Farewell!”
Thank you, Tolkien, for giving them a voice to break the terrible silence. I am listening.
And I believe.
Ambrose Ramsey | Pastor and Shepherd
