Thin Places

by

October 30, 2023

Death has seemed very present lately. We are in the season for dying things, as much of nature goes dormant for winter. Annual plants die completely, while perennials die back. Trees go out in a blaze of color before their leaves fall. Animals tuck themselves in to hibernate as the winter months approach.

For ancient Celts, this was beginning of a new year, as the summer ended and the dark half of the year began. Pagans celebrated Samhain Oct. 31-Nov. 1 (pronounced "so-wen") as a time when the barrier between this world and the spirit world broke down, and long dead ancestors might cross over. This season is a thin place, just as the Celts identified certain places where the veil between heaven and earth was thin and the spirit world was close at hand. In this thin time of the year, souls of the departed draw near and could even cross over.

The Celts would dress as monsters and animals to fend off fairies who they believed could abduct these wandering spirits. Like other pagan rituals, Samhain became Christianized, replaced by All Saints Day (Nov. 1) and All Souls Day (Nov. 2), when Christians honor those who have died. Halloween (Oct. 31), which continues the Samhain custom of wearing costumes, is All Hallow’s Eve – the eve of All Saints Day.

Latin American countries celebrate these days as Day of the Dead, or Dia de los Muertos, when families decorate graves, light candles, and leave treats to lure back ancestors who have died. They use marigolds, hoping the vibrant color and scent will attract departed souls, and decorate with skulls, which are often smiling, as if to laugh at death.

Many of us find it hard to laugh at death when it hits close to home, or when it comes through violence. The news is full of deaths that tear at the heartstrings – the ongoing war in Ukraine, a mass shooting in Maine, a hurricane in Acapulco, a mine explosion in Kazakhstan, and the staggering losses in Israel and Gaza, where the death toll is nearing 10,000.

In the midst of these tragedies, I am mourning the death of my mother at age 94. By all measures, she lived a full life and died in season. Just a week before she died, she was living independently in the home she and Dad built in 1960. After a short hospital stay, she died peacefully with her children and their spouses at her side. As much as I miss my mother, her death was not a tragedy like we hear about in the news, but the inevitable close to her earthly life.

To be born is to begin the process of dying. Each day we live draws us closer to our own transition from this life to whatever comes next. Despite our religious beliefs, that experience remains a mystery. I watched my mother take her last breath and felt her heart stop beating, and in an instant, she was gone. Although we knew it was coming – it was expected and we had prepared – it was still a shock. Not as much of a shock as it is when death comes without warning, but a shock nonetheless.

As difficult as it is to lose a loved one, our brushes with death bring meaning to life. The shock we feel, even when death is expected, has less to do with the end of that life than with the recognition of our own mortality. Knowing that we too will cross over that horizon makes each day precious.

As I begin the process of cleaning out Mom’s house, I find myself in a thin place. Each drawer or box opens onto a part of her life. Some flood my heart with familiarity, and some show me the young person I never knew. I find pictures of her as a child, as prom queen, and as a bride, when she was the same age her granddaughter is now. Boxes and drawers reveal correspondences dating to the 1950s. While I occasionally come across a memento of my father, Mom lived here for twelve years after he died, so her presence is pervasive.

I am engaged in a strange process of simultaneously remembering and dismantling a life. Each photograph, hairbrush, book, bathrobe, and trinket in this house was placed by her hands. Every discovery conveys who she was, what she valued, and how she lived. I know we cannot keep everything, but each bag of trash carries away a little bit of her life.

So I savor my time in this thin place, where my mother’s presence surrounds me. I know that as time passes, that presence will become less vibrant. This week, as we remember loved ones whose presence lingers in our memories, we may stumble into a thin place where a scent or sight or sound draws their spirit close, the veil between this world and the next is lifted, and we find ourselves in their presence, even if just for a moment.

The Rev. Jane Ellen Nickell, a United Methodist clergywoman, retired as chaplain of Allegheny College. To reproduce this content elsewhere, contact the author via her blog, A Nickell for Your Thoughts.