The Face of Peace

Early on the morning of March 14, 2002, I was privileged to look peace in the face, eye to eye, no blinking allowed. I had no inkling the moment was coming; I have no certainty it will come again. I will never forget what I saw.

The sun had just filled Danny’s room. It was his custom to do one of two things in his room – get up or sleep. Getting up had become increasingly difficult so it was not unusual to see him in his bed, curled up on one side or the other. But I’d never seen him clearly wide awake in his bed, propped up on his back, and just contemplating the world around him. Dan was not a contemplative.

He remained that way for a couple of hours. Not a sound came from him. I could see his eyes moving around his room and then looking up and down the hallway that stretched from his door to the other side of the home. It’s the only vantage point in our home that has that kind of view, which reflected the fact that Danny had come to a point where his perspective on life was unlike that of anyone else in his home.

What struck me was the look on his face. It was peace. There was an unusual brightness in his countenance and color in his face that morning. It was as though he’d recovered overnight to some remarkable extent. His eyes were completely at ease, and they were not the eyes of a young man approaching his 15th birthday. They were older eyes, deeper eyes, and wiser eyes. There was a knowing awareness on his face.

Danny had reached a point where he rarely verbalized his discomfort or complaints, but they would register on his face. His expressions had become stage cues for his family; they told us when something needed to be done. That morning, in spite of his severely deteriorated physical condition, there was no indication on his face that so much as suggested he was suffering from the almost numberless impacts attendant to his relapse and the “treatment” he’d just been through.

As the time passed I continued to watch him survey his kingdom. He loved his room and it reflected his unique personality and interests. It was filled with anime posters and his replications of them; with memorabilia from our trip to Japan just eight months before; with Japanese language tutorials. On a small wall just to the left of his door, directly in his line of sight in bed, hung two needlepoint pieces that had been done by my mom. One is a shogun in elaborate dress and the other a Japanese woman in a kimono of many colors. My mom had done them a number of years before she met Danny and I got them after she died in 1999. As soon as Danny saw them he asked if he could hang them in his room. My mom would have been very pleased. It was as though they had been made for him.

I walked past his bedroom door a number of times. The first time by I said, “Good morning, Sir Dan.” “Good morning, Jon,” he gently replied. A couple of times I walked by and just smiled. He mirrored those smiles. Finally, unaccustomed to the absence of some cue that would signal some need, I stopped and asked, “Do you need anything, Danny; can I get you something?” His quiet response was, “No, I’m fine.” I knew that he meant it, that it wasn’t just an automatic response to an automatic question. After 4½ years of battling day after day, after all the severe pummeling of his body that came with that intense fight, after all that had been taken from him, and now in the face of death – he was fine. He was at peace. I saw it on his face. It filled his room and spilled down the hallway.

I believe that a meaningful part of that peace emanated from a sacred reconciliation that he’d been through with his mom the night before – a reconciliation with life and its unfairness and uncertainty and ambiguity. In that late-night conversation the two of them covered the big points – why; why me; what did I do to deserve this; how come so many bad people don’t go through things like this? Then they went on to talk about dying and heaven and God. Then Danny bequeathed his room to his mom and his computer to his brother. He knew the books and Japan travels guides would be mine. Then, almost unbelievably, he told his mom which picture to use in his obituary. With his affairs in order, he made the transition outside concern for himself and the material things in his life. Danny began to express his genuine concern for us and how we would handle his death. The sacred whispering between mom and son covered all this and more. And with that, the reconciliation was complete.

Early on the morning of March 14, 2002, I was privileged to look peace in the face, eye to eye, no blinking allowed. The face of peace did not blink, nor did I. I will never forget what I saw and what it said to me. In retrospect, I believe that moment will come again, as soon as I have reconciled myself to life, with all its unfairness, uncertainty and ambiguity; as soon as I pull myself out of the fears of the past and future and choose to simply enjoy what surrounds me in the moment at hand.

That’s the only moment Danny had that morning. It’s the only moment I have this morning. It’s the only moment there is.

Peace be with you.