Travel is part of life. It turns out that it is also part of death.
A friend recounted to me how her mother seemed agitated near the end, and struggled to stuff belongings into a suitcase. My friend tried to reassure her, but was rebuffed.
"They are coming for me!"
Another elderly woman spoke of the ships she saw sailing through her room, and knew that soon one would welcome her aboard.
My mother was one of a dozen Roses, most of which have passed away. Amidst the jumbling monologue that escaped her dry lips in the hours before she died, was an exclamation.
"WOW! You talked to Dad?!"
The notion that angels not only perceive when a loved one is arriving, they stop what they are doing to be part of the welcome committee, is incredibly tender.
My uncle made the transition. He has packed his invisible bags. Or unpacked, depending on how you measure it. Last week he asked if Larry, my father, had already died. Which he did, some twenty seven years ago. I wonder if the question came up because Dad stopped by to check on him. Uncle Jack was my father's best man, and they were in a barbershop quartet together back in the forties. No doubt they are singing again even as Uncle Jack hurries through the gate.
There are times when I resign myself to the thought that my parents will be far too immersed in celestial celebration to find me when it is my turn to step across the veil. But then again, maybe there will be a reunion after all.
