In Costa Rica, we’d sometimes awake to dozens of huge guacamayas in the almond trees behind the house. We’d all sit on the back porch in awe, until the macaws would suddenly take flight in a flourish of red, yellow, and blue, off to the next almond tree.
Death is scary because my heart feels so big, reaching deep into the hearts of those around me. It screams with the love of a thousand generations and says “MINE.” And yet, I am in an inevitable process of dying, of flowing through a cosmic drain to the next almond tree.
One day, in the final ceremony, God will call me to the altar and ask that I place down all I’ve borrowed. I’m definitely going to bawl but “the work” is to prepare one’s heart to rejoice at this particular moment. As we teach our children to live in fullness, may we also teach them to die in fullness.
Plates are shifting around us. Winters are freezing and thawing. Flocks of colorful guacamayas land and take flight again, reminding us that we are just here for a moment before taking flight again.
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