Voyage of Life
Atlanta, GA
February 22, 2020
Thirty years ago next month, I graduated from college. During the ensuing months and years, most of my friends walked across similar stages, and framed their own diplomas. New careers started, graduate degrees were pursued, and bar bills piled up.
Then, wedding announcements began to roll in. Several times a year, we donned suits to witness these unions. Sometimes we participated in them, and needed a tux.
We’d usher distinguished ladies to front pews, and walk pretty girls in bright pink dresses down the aisle, to our respective spots on either side of the betrothed. A few times I’d be asked to raise a toast…to honor the bride, razz the groom, and embarrass myself. For several years, Corinthians 13:4 became almost a seasonal anthem.
I even starred in one of these ceremonies. That day, I didn’t need to walk or seat anyone. I just had to stand there before the altar, not touch anything, and not move. The prettiest girl that day wore not pink, but white.
Homes were bought, bank accounts were merged, and dogs began gracing Christmas cards. Soon, other cards arrived, often in shades of pink or blue. They featured dimensions, dates, and photos, portraying the face that would dominate every subsequent Christmas card.
Careers progressed, schedules filled, and families grew. But they also shrank. Obituaries started trickling to our inboxes. Gowns of pink and white yielded periodically to dark dresses and black veils. Corinthians 13 succumbed to John 14.
In our childhood, funerals were typically for elderly relatives we barely or never knew. As we aged, Requiems became more personal and poignant. When honoring deceased grandparents or elderly departed, an Irish wake might alleviate the somber tone, mingling wine and revelry with tears and grief.
I recall my first visit, as a child, to the National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC. Most of the works flew past in a blur, but one stuck immediately, and since. Around 1850, Thomas Cole painted a series representing The Voyage of Life in four panels.
They convey a man, accompanied by a guardian angel, drifting in a small boat through a 19th century wilderness and each of the four seasons. The first three are allegories of Childhood, Youth, and Manhood.
The last is of Death. Through my childhood eyes, this was the most mysterious, and captivating, of the series. The scene is desolate, yet auspicious. Terrestrial shackles and mundane cares have disappeared. A welcoming angel beckons in the distance, as the loyal guardian gestures to him from beside the old man’s bark.
Now, in the Summer (perhaps Indian Summer) of life, this painting again comes to mind. Occasionally, and tragically, we learn that a contemporary has died, or that one of their children has returned to Christ’s bosom. We are informed or reminded how few and fragile are our mortal days. Memento Mori.
More common these days is the passing of friends’ parents. Last week, our son’s Godmother relayed the sad news that her father died. Yesterday, at Christ the King Cathedral, we attended his Requiem Mass.
He was a wonderful, remarkable man. His widow, a woman of equally formidable merit, sat grieving and dignified in the front pew. His daughter, elegant and beautiful, delivered a moving eulogy that corresponded to the grace and aspect of its author.
Her parents were exiled from Castro’s Cuba, propelling them of necessity into the third panel of life’s voyage. Manhood had been thrust upon her father. Or, perhaps better said, he took it upon himself.
But if Youth was fleeting, it was not lost. Indeed, tho’ this man was aged, he was never old. In his Homily, the Priest distinguished between Happiness and Joy. Happiness, he said, was in the moment. Like Happy Hour, it comes and goes. Joy is a state of mind, and of being. Either you are, or you aren’t. When you are not happy, you are sad. When you lack joy, you attain sorrow.
This man was often happy, sometimes sad. Always joyful, never sorrowful. Photographs in the narthex and testimony from the pulpit affirmed the exuberance and joy radiating from this couple…despite losing their country, abandoning their possessions, and separating from their families.
But they always retained their Faith. Through some thinly-veiled tears and a few irrepressible smiles, his daughter reminisced before us how it fortified him, supported his family, and continues to guide her. The result is indisputable, and impressive.
Over the coming years we will receive more notices, and attend more Masses, like we did this week. But few will be more moving.
God called a good man home. His daughter was his angel, guiding him to his eternal destination. Yesterday, she bid him adieu, as he drifted toward his celestial host…
…and sailed away.
JD
