Fragments of a Life

The Scripture says, "You shall stand up before the gray head and honor the face of an old man, and you shall fear your God: I am the Lord." (Leviticus 19:32)

Today was spent with family in Virginia, helping to move a relative who can no longer adequately take care of herself, and who needs, if not constant, fairly close supervisory care. It was the second move -- and the second downsizing -- within the space of a year. Most of her precious treasures, culled from the accumulated substance of a vigorous life, were parted from her the last go 'round. This one is even more severe. Mercifully, events intervened so that she was not present for the actual move, to see her things sifted, sorted, and scattered.

Among the many knick-knacks, framed items and assorted memorabilia that were casualties to necessity today, there were quite a few photographs. Family gatherings. Children. Children's weddings. Grandchildren. And some people whose identities, and therefore stories, were indecipherable to the little platoon of kin whose melancholy task it was today to decide what was really needed, and what not.

One photograph drew nearly everyone's attention. It was a wedding pose, taken outdoors in a grove, with hints of architecture that made the setting look like up north someplace, perhaps among the New York relatives. The photographer's autograph in the corner read, "Bachrach 1923". In the center of the picture, a bride in a simple white dress holding a simple bouquet of flowers -- perhaps carnations or daisies or wildflowers -- gave a wan smile to the camera, in accordance with the custom of the day, even then just emerging from the more severe poses of the previous century. To her left, the viewer's right, a tall young man with round-lens spectacles and a moustache, crisply attired: evidently, the groom. To his left, a young woman whose features could only be described as "handsome" in a dark dress. Perhaps the groom's sister? To the bride's right, another couple. The man, on the left end as I looked at the picture, was throwing a somewhat sardonic or rakish smile. The woman next to him, between him and the bride, was clearly with him. She was attempting to be in the spirit of the occasion. But there was something else in her eyes: was it perhaps fear? or disillusionment -- some deep sadness? Only her eyes gave her away in what was otherwise a perfect mirage of carefree joy.

No one knew the identity of the people in the print -- which had been carefully preserved for many years and was in pristine condition. Guesses were made, possibilities hazarded; but no one could say for sure. Five lives. Five stories. Five young and bold faces, gateways to five people whose mortal bodies are all, almost certainly, dust.

All of us, winding up our journey in this world, leave behind these fragments of a life. Whether it's images in old sepia, a few furnishings and papers, or -- as in the case of our relative -- a small menagerie of glass animals, these bits and pieces so soon become the property, or problem, of those after us. Along the way, they tell something of who we have been, and what has driven us, and to what we have aspired, and whether we have achieved it -- or settled instead for the "possible" and the "expected".

And in the midst of such a personal catastrophe, so periodically predictable in the history of nearly every family, how do we care for those who are going through it? Even where creeping dementia is now accentuating the (usually less endearing) character traits and patterns of thought and action, how can we smooth and ease the passage from one stage of life, one narrowing of horizons and vision -- to the next, so that the journey can be accomplished with dignity and without despair? For each of us is but a few short days and weeks from the same chapter in our own lives.

The ancient law -- God's law -- commands us to revere the elders among us. In so doing, we give new value to our common humanity. And in the example we set our children thereby, we make a statement of hope and a plea for our own selves, farther down life's trail.

(Providence, Prince Frederick, Maryland)