Death is bigger than human shortcomings or mistakes.  The other day,  I wrote about a mistake that could not be undone.

Today I meant to rectify that mistake, to move beyond it. I had a second chance.

I sat in the car this afternoon for a minute to make sure I was grounded. The very last thing you want to do to a person nearing the edge of life is dump your baggage onto them.

I do not need to know what is happening, or where it is all going. I just need to recognize the opportunities and challenges of the present moment, and to embrace the moment with courage,  faith and hope.

So I went to visit my friend  today, the one in hospice care six months after I tried to pressure and bully her into changing her life.  She was angry then, and we stopped talking to one another.

She sent a message to me two days ago saying she wanted to see me, and I very much wanted to see her.

Something I meant as a righteous call for change was just a bumbling and stupid move, the side effect of hubris.

I haven’t seen her or spoken with her since then, and I regret pushing her away when she most needed my friendship and my help.

She is gravely ill. I didn’t realize how sick. Towards the end of life, the body hugs the skin closely to us, our softness melts away, as if our souls soak up every bit of nourishment.

We hugged and held one another closely, I cried briefly,.

I remembered my hospice creeds: listen, unless asked to talk, keep visits short, touch if you can, people need touching and hugging at the end of their lives. It’s about them, not you. And listen some more.

My friend has a great sense of humor, she is a stoic, uncomplaining and wry. That hasn’t changed.

People often think they can relate to other people by jumping in and mirroring their sorrow: I was in the hospital too, or I had a death in the family too, or my dog died, too. But I believe that is wrong. People in extremis don’t need to hear the troubles of other people, it is not comforting or helpful.

It isn’t love.

Our disagreement and subsequent separation seemed very small and petty now, death is a great teacher of perspective. In death, we focus on what is important, not on the imperfections and quarrels of human beings.

Her voice was frail, thin, her face  gaunt. I barely recognized her.

I often hear that the treatment can be worse than the disease, and her mother said  her chemotherapy nearly killed her. I felt awful when I learned from her mother that she was dying.  I had failed her in the most elemental of ways.

But this afternoon, that seemed so petty and meaningless. My friend and I had very little time left. My mistake just wasn’t important any longer, not to her, not even to me.

She didn’t want to dwell on it, so neither did I. So we laughed at it and watched it float away, like a butterfly.

Last night, I turned to my old friend Thomas Merton for some spiritual centering, I felt lost and foolish and arrogant.

“The beginning of love,” Merton said, “is the will to let those we love be perfectly themselves, the resolution not to twist them to fit our own image. If in loving them we do not love what they are, but only their potential likeness to ourselves, then we do not love them: we only love the reflection of ourselves we find in them.”

I know how to do this. I have done it with Maria, she has done it with me. We accept and love each other for who we are, not for who we might like the other to be.

My friend said she accepted death. “After all,” she smiled, “what can you do?” Nothing much. And I felt love for her, and I believe she felt love for me. “I am so glad you came,” she said. “I am so glad I came,” I replied.

“I meant to spur you to a better place, “I said, “I just ended up driving you off.”

We talked, and I asked her what she needed: books, music? She smiled and said she didn’t need anything any longer. She couldn’t read now, and music was upsetting for her.

She said she would like to hear some funny stories.

I told her some funny stories – fortunately Bud is a funny story machine. I was awkward a bit, as I always am when expected to perform, I do better spontaneously, but there was no time to wait for that.

Red came with me, nearly blind now, he did find my friend and came to the edge of the bed. I asked him to lie down, and he did.

After a half-hour or so, I saw that she was fading, and we hugged again. I asked if I could by again in a day or so, and she said yes, she would like that very much.

It was just what her mother had said to me the other day. A visit would be good for both of us. I can’t speak for her, but it was good for me.

I urged the family to get more help from hospice, people often wait too long to ask for help for themselves, and often, the hardest time is for the healthy.

They will need all the energy and strength they can muster.  Tonight, her mother said she would take my advice. This is what hospice does so beautifully. They help.

I felt redemption. I felt I had moved from a bad place to a beautiful place. Second chances are rare and precious. If I had a thousand of them in the bank, I would take them all.

My friend, perhaps more generous and understanding than I often am, was giving me another chance to be a friend. We had this feeling for one another. It was all still there.

I’ll grab that lifeboat and hang onto it.