The Way that People Meet Death

I knew a lady–I will call her Mara, which means “bitter.” Mara died in her bed, in her room at the care home where she lived. She was in her seventies when she died, a thin, quiet-faced lady with iron-gray hair. She wore blue jeans, tennis shoes, a sweater. She had a pleasant smile. She liked to walk alone on the grounds outside the home.

I know nothing of Mara’s past and little of her personality. I know that for days before she died, she would not eat. Repeatedly, she put her fingers into her throat to cause herself to vomit. Those of us who knew her do not blame her for this–she had a mental illness.

But, still, I wonder what despair she had experienced, what insecurities and loneliness, to unbalance her mind in such a fashion, to cause her to lie on her bed, face restless, and make those horrible choking noises with her fingers in her throat.

I knew another lady who lived at the same care home, a few doors away. I will call her Bonny, for her bonny blue eyes, which sparkled when she smiled. Bonny was petite, the bones of her wrists like toothpicks. She had smooth white hair which she kept back in a ponytail. Her hair band was always slipping out, her hair falling disheveled around her face. She wore blouses and short skirts and used a walker. She spoke with a gentle southern accent. She loved guitar and the old country songs; they reminded her of her daddy and her childhood.

When Bonny smiled–and she smiled often–her blue eyes danced, and the smile stretched wide across her face. I felt, seeing her, that I had seen a picture of joy.

Because Bonny always seemed happy, I was shocked when I learned a little of her past. She had been in three marriages, with at least two ending in divorce, a victim of abusive relationships. When I asked Bonny about her children, she didn’t seem to know where they were or what they were doing. She slipped out of this world quietly one night. After she had gone, her children didn’t bother to clean out her room; they told the nursing home to take care of it. One made a laughing comment: “If you find any hundred dollar bills, let us know.”

This was Bonny’s past.

But at some point in her womanhood, Bonny had given her life to the Lord. One of the night nurses at the home told me how Bonny called her into her room one night and asked to pray with her. “I just want to make sure everything’s taken care of,” she said. That night, Bonny seemed as healthy as always, but a few days later, she died.

Several weeks prior to that, I had a conversation with Bonny one day and asked her, “Do you ever talk to God?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I talk to him all the time. He’s my best friend.”

Something clicked. “That must be why you can be so happy all the time,” I said. “Because God is your best friend.”

Bonny smiled. Her eyes danced.

These are two ladies that I knew. And this the way that they met death.