Saturday, April 28, 2012

Grandpa MacDowell




April 23rd, 2012

I am in Rwanda right now, on the shores of Lake Kivu just south of Gisenyi. Across the water lies Congo. So much of my history and being grows out of Congo.

Tonight dad tells me (via txt) that they’ve moved grandpa home from the Convalescent Center, that they are giving him two weeks. It feels like a profound and sacred thing somehow. To me. To be here. To be close to the land to which my grandparents—all of them— dedicated their lives and their work. I feel extremely far away somehow and yet very close.

There is a big storm out over the lake tonight. The usually quiet shore is tonight loud with the crashing of waves. Thunder. And the strobe of lightening. Making me feel very earthly, temporal, and yet very much alive and a part of it all.

How strangely sad to think of one of the pillars of my life and history coming to an end. But how good to imagine Grandpa getting up out of the river on the other side—like the good king Caspian… young. Tall. Strong. In the fullness of his being. I imagine uncle Ham being the first there among the crowds, waiting, to grasp his hand and pull him up out of the waters into a booming hug. I long for this, even as my heart hurts to think of death and separation.

There is a tree here at this place, an incredible old tree close to the waters edge. Today after long hours, I lay under its great umbrella of crisscrossing branches. And I thought of its age and stability and strength. I imagined its roots, sustained by the waters of the lake and this peaceful and perfect place in which it lives. I thought too, of the turmoil through which it has lived. Colonialism. Independence. Genocide. Healing and restoration. All the while growing as only trees can, into the fullness of their beings.

I am grateful tonight. Grateful for my roots. Grateful for my grandparents. My family. For those I met today. And for these sacred moments of life. 



Grandpa died peacefully at home on April 24th surrounded by the love and warmth of Grandma, Mom, Dad and Auntie Annie at 95.
What a gift.