This weekend there is heaviness.  All around us, death looms beautiful in the vibrant colors of autumn.

Today, Saint James and his family said their goodbyes to their 14 year old lab-bear, Otis, who has seen the family grow and change for a beautiful season.  The length of his years has surprised all of us- this dog giant with a bigger heart and a certain penchant for pepperoni pizza and a particular gray stuffed kitty.

Tomorrow, my family will seize a moment in time to celebrate my grandmother’s 78th, and probably final, birthday as her health declines.  My family will gather to celebrate the blessing she is in our lives, the matriarch of my father’s family.  This woman who is selfless and stubborn to a fault, who takes care of her own with ferocity and makes one hell of a mimosa.

We embrace moments of life in this death season that lays heavy on our hearts.

The advent of autumn and cold nights has meant tearing out the garden.  The tomato plants were skeletons, working hard to bring their fruit to full-term, while the okra had shriveled in the cold and the peppers were surviving, when I went to work.

I gleaned the remaining fruit off the vine, and pulled the plants up by the roots, marveling at the lack of depth despite a generally bountiful season.  And I cried.

I hate change.  And while I enjoy fall, I hate bitter wind and ice and darkness and the death that winter entails.  The changing of the seasons pains me every year, as the cold closes in and the sun isn’t there to greet me as I rise.

The harvest wasn’t all that I had hoped back in April and May, as we tilled and planted and dreamed.  Only a few jars of pickles were made, and I didn’t freeze nearly as much as I wanted.  There had been plenty of salsa, and quite a number of tomatoes eaten off the vine, but could I have done better?

I’m certain I could have.  Been more faithful with watering, with fertilizer.  With careful tending.

By honoring the present moment, we honor death and make peace with it.

Although God-willing, there will be more spring seasons, more gardens, more fruit, I am reminded that we have but one life to live.

I don’t want to live, or to die, with regrets.  For myself or the ones I hold nearest to my heart.  We must tend carefully.  To be faithful in watering right seeds and weeding out that which steals our nourishment and starves our souls.  To seize the moments of celebration and mindfulness and prayer.

Death is the only certainty in life.  And despite our cultural tendency to avoid talking about it or trying to avoid the inevitable, maybe we ought to embrace it.  Maybe if we lived with death in mind, we would embrace the moments more.  Maybe we wouldn’t be so afraid in the valley of the shadow of death if we walked a little closer to our Shepherd.  If we marveled at the gift of the present.

It never comes conveniently, death.  It leaves gaping holes in our hearts while we reel from losing a frail hand to hold, or not having a giant dog to lift down the stairs every morning.  We ache to hold the sweet son who enveloped us in his giant hugs or hear another breath from our spouse in the bed next to us.  We mourn the loss of our humming mothers, or the children we never got the chance to meet.  The lack of presence of our quiet and quirky grandfather never fails to escape our notice.  And we never quite get over not being able to pick up the phone, or squeeze a hand or mention one more time how much and how deeply we love.

We cope, and change.  The hole will always, always remain.

But if we live intentionally, embracing each moment, there won’t be anything to regret.