Death and Squeaky Yellow Ducks
This is a collection of broken stories that I hope will tie together at the end. Each of the first nine paragraphs is a little tile in a mosaic, broken off from its original context and rough around the edges. They all lead up to the story of the squeaky ducks. Together, they make an odd picture.
I have heard a firsthand account from someone who watched someone die. They were over 100 years old and died in the middle of the night, but someone was there to hold their hand and sing to them while they died. “I didn’t want her to die alone,” he said.
I have heard someone talk about how scared they are of dying. “I’ve been thinking about death for a while, and I am scared. I think I’m moving to a place of peace about it, though.”
I read an email last week about a local tragedy that led to the death of a child. She stepped in front of a van on the way to school. Some of her classmates witnessed the accident. One moment, she was fine. The next, she was in critical condition. She died as a result of her injuries. The email was part of a series of announcements that concluded with a strange request: A request for squeaky yellow ducks to be brought to church on Sunday. Sometimes the darkest things in life are paired up with strange symbols of joy. More about that later.
It’s not just death, though. I have heard someone make jokes about the “joys” of geriatrics. “I think I’ll turn into a maraca before too long, with all these pills and my Parkinson’s Disease.” He laughed, but I couldn’t manage more than an uncomfortable smile.
I have heard someone who was in financial duress who then became thankful that they lost their job. She received some money for retirement at the end of her job, and this helped pay for her mother’s stay in the nursing home and subsequent funeral. “Lord, I didn’t know what to do next… when I lost my job, though, I came across more money than I ever had.” That one had me confused for a bit. I had never thought about someone being thankful for losing a job. Certainly not when it was followed closely by a funeral.
I overheard a bizarre conversation at a restaurant recently. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I was captivated by this tragic story that I accidentally heard. The man was unprepared for some lecture. Well, he was prepared, but for the wrong topic. He went back home to get the right notes and take a shower. The hot water was out, so he had to take a cold shower. Before he left, he heard a knock at the door. Behind the rapping knuckles stood two sisters. They were looking for their estranged brother whom they hadn’t seen since the turn of the millenium. Their mother was reaching an older age, and they wanted the brother to be home when she died. They had hired a private detective to help track him down, and apparently the brother had lived next door. The man didn’t know him, but asked the landlord. He didn’t know either, but did know that the flat had been used as a halfway home at some point. The man concluded that the brother must have died from drug use.
Two moments stand out from a trip to Latvia last fall. The first happened at a church in Jekabpils. Shortly after our arrival, an older woman thrust a bag with the biggest pumpkin I’ve ever seen into my arms. I stood there while she explained what to do. As I did not understand Russian or Latvian (still not sure which), I continued to stand there with this massive gourd clutched to my chest and a blank expression on my face. Lukas, the pastor’s son who did understand Latvian or Russian, asked why I wasn’t taking it upstairs. Oh.
Later that day, I stood in a house with rickety floorboards, blankets on the wall for insulation, a dingy kitchen, a swarm of flies, and one bedroom for a mother and her four children. I was told that they bathed once a week in a tub. Alexa, the elder of the two daughters, recited a poem for us under the lone light bulb in between the dining table without chairs and another table that held some buckets of water and a dirty cat. Victor, our host, told us after she finished that the poem was about how thankful she was to God that she had a house and food. That moment under the lone lightbulb in that Latvian house was enough to cast light into the darkness of my ungrateful spirit. I carry that memory with me now.
In our last class for Union this term, we talked about divorce, abuse, and funerals. It was a heavy and emotion-laden discussion. No-one visibly expressed emotion, but there was a sense of gravitas or weight around these topics. Even in the hypothetical, classroom discussions, there was a certain malaise about uncomfortable realities. I know that although we spoke in general terms, everyone was able to relate or remember when they had seen these common tragedies occur in their lives or the lives of someone they loved.
Death, disorder, disease, decay. These things hurt; they don’t make much sense. They are a miasma in our human experience. The more we encounter them, the more discouraged we might become. If humanity is a network, then what affects one portion affects another. We are not isolated individuals. “No man is an island.” Negativity is pervasive. If this is true of sad things, however, might the same be true about joy?
This is where the squeaky yellow ducks come in. On Sunday, Pastor John talked about a woman called Phoebe who was a missionary to Asia. At some point, she was arrested and imprisoned on false charges. She was placed in a cell with three other women. She did not speak their language; they did not speak English. She was alone in a crowded place.
Her friend, Veronica, began to visit her. For some reason, she brought a squeaky yellow duck. This amused the other prisoners. They began to laugh at Phoebe’s rubber duck. So, Veronica brought more. Soon her cellmates had their own squeaky ducks and the laughter grew and grew.
One day, a guard with a stern disposition approached Phoebe. She was concerned until he squeaked a rubber duck and began to smile. Veronica had given one to him as well! Phoebe was soon found innocent and released from prison, but not before she and Veronica had filled the prison with a pervasive sense of joy over the smallest and silliest thing. What a transformation of a dark place!
The point of this strange series of vignettes is simple. We live in a messed up world. Injustice happens. Death happens. Divorce happens. Abuse happens. Darkness is real. But all of these things are shadows. We know these things are wrong, but sometimes we fail to notice what is right.
Justice is also real. Life is also real. Marriage is also real. Help is also real. Light is also real. Negative things are only so because they detract from the proper reality. We will encounter problems.
“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” — John 16:33
It’s part of life. The good thing is that we get to choose our response. The better thing is that we weren’t made for here. We were made for a better place, and that gives me hope.
“Brothers and sisters, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.” — Phillippians 3:13-14
Right now, we’re in a messy place. There is good. There is bad. Sometimes the happy and the sad happen right next to each other.Oftentimes they are close enough that they could hold hands. Sometimes something bad will hit you in the face right after something good happens. Sometimes a good moment comes riding in on the tide of the worst of bad days. Sometimes that looks like death and squeaky ducks.
Sometimes our lives will take us right up to the edge, singing with someone so they won’t die alone.
Sometimes, the very thought of death makes us fearful.
Sometimes we encounter death when we were least expecting it.
Sometimes, disease riddles our bodies and the best medicine we can use is laugter.
Sometimes we lose our jobs only to find something else was in the works.
Sometimes we are left looking.
Sometimes all somebody wants you to do is carry a pumpkin.
Sometimes we see immense gratitude in the dearth of possessions.
Sometimes we have to talk about the hard things.
We all have something that we can share, even if it is as small or silly as a yellow squeaky duck. We can always afford a smile. Our lives may not make sense. Confusion and trouble lurk behind every corner. Trials are waiting.
“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.” — James 1:2–3
Let’s not let them trip us up, though. Let’s use the difficult situations in life to display what can be overcome. Response matters. Respond faithfully.
Context: For the past six months or so, I’ve been living in Lancing, England. I’m working as an apprentice at Lancing Tabernacle (Sister church with Meadow Grove in Brandon, MS) and taking classes from Union School of Theology. The school is located in Wales, but has a learning community in Worthing, where I visit the classroom on Mondays. The rest of the week, I’m at the Tab as John Woods’ assistant, or doing whatever comes up. Life is messy. Our lives are broken pieces, but I believe that our Creator can make a mosaic out of our disasters and rough edges. I’m looking to Him.
