Death of a Peasant

I always thought that Tolstoy's Death of a Peasant was so moving.

And I've been thinking about it every now and then.

In a way, my own death is something like the death of this peasant.

My death is slow ... but of course inexorable, inevitable, as all of our deaths are inevitable. In the meantime ... in the meantime, what does the peasant do, but lay where he's laying as he awaits death to come?

Same here. I really have nothing else to do but wait ... I can visit Mom's Grave and say the Prayers of the Church and go to Mass and I can await the inevitable end of this fatal journey we call life.

The peasant in many ways died alone. Except for God.

I too am dying in many ways alone. Except for God.

Is that so bad?

How could it be?

Life is both a gift and a curse, but it is what it is, and that's that.

Meanwhile, like the peasant, I huddle a bit to stay warm while I await the slow approach of the Grim Reaper. Very slow in my case: it might be some years - a decade or two perhaps - till God calls me from this exile.

In the meantime what is there to do ... but to huddle in the warmth, and pray, and wait.

O I love you Lord Jesus

I love you Momma

Please please please Lord Jesus ... take good care of my Momma.

Charles Delacroix
Feast of St John of the Cross