A LESSON IN LIFE AND DEATH

After 17 years living in Seattle, six months ago our family moved to a seven acre farm on Bainbridge Island, a 35 minute ferry ride from the city. I had resisted this move for years, but my husband finally convinced me. He underscored that our two boys, Spencer (10) and Ben (7), would learn responsibility as they fed and cared for animals, gathered eggs, took care of a large garden, and harvested their own food. I argued the sundry merits of an urban environment for children and staying in the community we had spent years building relationships. But, my husband's soul seemed to be withering in the city, so I agreed to purchase our small farm and sample life on an island. While I concurred with my husband's assessment that our children would be more amenable to farm chores than, say, unloading the dish washer and making up their beds, there was an important lesson that I did not anticipate. In the past six months, the boys have experienced not only tending to their animals in life but also witnessing and caring for many of them in death.

Within the first two weeks of moving, my husband drove to southern Oregon and picked up nine sheep, purchased two baby pigs on the Olympic Peninsula, ordered 35 chickens and roosters, designed and built a chicken coop, bulldozed fences, and located the local "Bay Hay and Feed" store on the island. At a block party, a neighbor commented to him, "you know those kind of people who take a year or two to move in, well, you are not those kind of people!" For a decade he had dreamed of this; there was no time to lose. In March we moved to the farm, and by the beginning of April our boys began their 6 month journey of feeding, watering, and generally caring for their animals, some of whom they knew would one day be slaughtered for food.

When the chickens arrived in the mail, the boys and I went to our small island post office to pick them up. The fact that 35 chickens survive being packaged and sent through the mail, like a book or birthday present, remains an odd and intriguing mystery to me. I actually was surprised that only three of the chickens didn't weather the journey well and appeared weak and frail. In the quiet, dim light of our workshop where the "brooder," with its bright orange heat lamp, was housed, my seven year old son gently cradled one of the languishing chicks in his hands, fed it with a medicine dropper, and tried to nurse it back to life. By the time he had repeated his tender ritual with the third chick, Ben whispered, "mama, she can't eat or drink, her eyes are cloudy; she is dying." Ben had been acquainted with his chickens for only a matter of hours, but there was a sense of compassion and understanding in the way he held and cared for them as they died, like he understood both the sacredness and naturalness of life and death.

After they died Ben asked if we could have a funeral service and bury them. Ben dug three small graves, placed "Moon,' "Sun," and "Star" in the ground and put rocks with their names to mark each grave. Then, he asked to read the creation story in Genesis, sing songs, and dance. Ben was baptized and spent his first seven years of life in a small Presbyterian church in Seattle with a traditional worship style, so his inclination to include dancing in his service surprised me. Ben's choice of celestial names for his chicks reminded me of a sweet song I learned from my nature-loving, back to the garden friends. Despite being "good Presbyterians", together we sang: "Beautiful one, child of the earth and the sun, let God's love wash over you; let God's love watch over you" as we danced. There was mix of sadness, joy, and hope in our ceremony.  

Five months after the death of our baby chicks, our two pigs, "Pancetta" and "Salumi," had grown from tiny squealing babies we could hold in our arms to large hogs. Ben took pride in feeding them our food scraps daily, making sure they had water, and generally caring for them well. At the end of September, Jamie taught the boys how to use a piece of string to weigh a pig. Each one was over 300 hundred pounds; it was time for their slaughter. On the eve of our pigs' death, just hours before the abattoir arrived at our home, Ben requested we have a ceremony for the pigs. We lite a candle, fed them their favorite snack, apples, and thanked them for being our pigs. In the quiet of Ben's room that evening, we cuddled, said prayers for the pigs, and talked about how well he had cared for them, what a wonderful life they had enjoyed on our farm, and how now they would feed us and our friends.  

While the death of an animal isn't the same thing as the death of a human, especially a beloved one, there is something important communicated about the natural cycle of life when we experience even an animal's death in an intimate way; there is a familiarity and understanding that develops, even a sort of courage that is called upon and strengthened. The kind of warmth, tenderness, compassion, and courage Ben showed to the baby chicks and later to his pigs in their lives as well as their deaths was astounding to me. I'm certain neither of us knew his capacity to hold death and life so graciously and gently that was called forth in these agrarian experiences.  

It is not simply a basic familiarity with death we gain on the farm, but we also learn about ourselves when we hold it, smell it, and generally come face to face with death throughout our lives, rather that for the first time when our aging parent, who lives hundreds of miles away, is making her 5th trip to the hospital's ICU. It's hard not to cling tenaciously to life, trying to do "everything possible," rather that recognize that life, as we know it, ends, and sometimes gently letting go of our loved one is the kindest and most empathetic response. As Christians, we share a faith in a God who promises our suffering and death aren't the end of the story. While our natural fear compels us to cling to life, despite the unremitting suffering of our loved ones or their pleas to stop intervening with extreme measures that further their pain, our Christian hope often gives us the courage to let go. At seven years old, Ben knows something about death and certainly has become familiar with his capacity watch what he loves die.  

In Biblical times, people had children as insurance policies, ensuring parents would be taken care of as they became frail, aged and died. We now live in a day where we are often isolated from people growing old and dying, as many of our elderly brothers and sisters spend their final days in assisted living homes or die in hospitals. Selfishly I find solace in knowing life on our farm is providing an opportunity for my boys to grow in their understanding of death and their capacity to hold it. The baby chicks taught Ben that impending death brings loss of appetite and eyes eventually cloud over; he quietly noticed these changes as he held the birds close in his small hand. Over time that small hand will grow as large as his generous heart, and perhaps hold my small, fragile, old hand- listening to my hopes, my fears; noticing my appetite, my breath, and the lack of clarity in my waning eyes. If my sons' mix of tenderness and courage in the face of the death of their animals is any indication of the future, I have no doubt that one day they will be of utmost comfort to me on my deathbed as they graciously let me go.