Death, Dreams, and Hope

I have wanted to write about death for a while. However, I have kept my distance from this topic because I know that it can be difficult to write about it. It makes me uncomfortable. So, I will do my best to articulate a few things that I have learned about death and my own mortality over the years.

Photo by Mathew MacQuarrie on Unsplash

My first experience with death was in 2003. My grandfather had a stroke and he died a few weeks after it happened. It may have been days, but it felt like an eternity to see him lying down on his death-bed. I felt deeply sad. However, I had many memories with Papa, and many reasons to celebrate his life.

My mother used to tell a story from when I was about three or four-years-old. During my early childhood, my family moved to Honduras. My father was from there, and he had been invited to pastor a church in the City of Tegucigalpa. Evidently, three-year-old me was unconsolable because I had left my papa behind. According to my mother’s account, I would tell her that my abuelo was sad because I had left him behind. I would sit down staring out the window sighing and saying: “Papa is sad because he misses me.”

Papa was as big as the world, and his hight and deep voice would fill up the room. He had a tough outer shell, which gave him a mysterious aura. I wanted to spend as much time as I could with him. I wanted to figure him out. He intrigued me. That is why, when I was about thirteen-years-old, I started visiting him as much as I could. Some days, I would just go to watch soap operas with him. Other days, which were my favorite encounters, I would ask a question that would spark a historical account of his anecdotes, and how he lived through some of the most significant years of Guatemala’s early democratic history.

He told me stories that I cherish, like the details of his life in the Guatemalan jungle while working for the Chiclets (bubble-gum) company, or how he was trained by mysterious gringos who taught him and other middle-management workers how to use hand-guns and semi-automatic rifles in case they found “communists” near the facilities. He told me about the jungle red ants that would eat everything as the swarms marched through the jungle and into my grandparents house. He told me about the two times he won the big lottery price. He confided some of the stories of his family history, and gave me plenty of advice about forgiveness, dedicating my life to one woman, and rising my children to be good people. The last two advices felt weird at thirteen. I cherished them, nonetheless.

As a result, when it was time for him to transition in 2003, I felt at peace. I had gotten to know a man I admired in a way that I never thought was possible. After my cousins and I carried his coffin during his funeral and said our last goodbyes, I cried, mourned, and had a deep sense of peace. My relationship with him and his passing shaped my understanding of life and death, and delivered the first lesson I would learn about death. If we live with love, death is not an enemy. She is a faithful companion holding our hand until our existence in this life ceases to be.

Yes, those are feather on my head. Different times, different people, we all have learned better, haven’t we? Picture taken circa 1986

The second lesson came from my mother’s death. She died of breast cancer. I was living in the US at the time and finishing a master’s degree. I was ready to drop everything and move back to Guatemala to be with her during her sickness. One night, she called me, and I asked if she wanted me to move back and help in any way possible. She responded: “Stay and finish what you started. If I die today, you will mourn. If I die in 20 years, you will regret leaving this opportunity behind. Death will happen regardless. Regret, however, is too heavy of a load to carry for a lifetime, no matter how long that life is.”

Interestingly, the wisdom in her words freed us up in ways that healed our relationship from the wounds of resentment, violence, and theological disagreements (she was a Bible scholar, and she became a muejerista theologian towards the end of her life. She died at 54). The last week we spent together, for her birthday in 2010, we read together On Job by Gustavo Gutiérrez. I read aloud, for she didn’t have the strength to read for long periods of time. She listened and interjected her commentary as we read through the book.

The third lesson I want to share came to me during 2019. My brother died in June. My father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in July and died in December that year, and my grandmother on my father’s side died in March 2020. During those months, my body couldn’t process all the loss I experienced and the lack of resolution on some of the family trauma. As a result, I started having two recurring dreams. During the last part of the first dream, I was aware of my death. My existence would cease. I would see a bright light and realize that I was not going to heaven. I was reincarnating into something new or someone else. I was so mad that I would scream in my dream: “you lied to me, you pricks (this is the clean version of what I said). There is no heaven or hell!” Then, I would wake up. My back would be drenched in sweat, and my hands would be shaking.

On the second dream, I would also die. But, instead of reincarnating I would see my consciousness fading into nothingness and realize that there was nothing after death. I would also scream: “you lied to me, you pricks! I could have lived without fear of hell!”

Interestingly, these two dreams sent me into researching about the traditions of heaven and hell in Christianity—I may write a post about it at some point but today is not for that. I learned that we have made it all up. Finding this out, gave me a deep hope for humanity, God, and life itself. Realizing that heaven and hell are constructions of our imagination set me free to love those who surround me intentionally and wholeheartedly, for there is no guaranty of what comes next. It also prompted me to dream about the paradise we can create and access in this life for myself and others. Without certainty, I can only hope and dream of what could be in this life. And because of the uncertainty of what comes next, I must try to keep healing in this life, for it may be all there is. Life is too short to hold grudges and regret. It requires faith to live knowing there may be no heaven after this life, but that there is a God in whom there is no violence, a God who is in rivalry with nobody and nothing, not even death.

As I think about my dreams and what they sparked, I remember Christopher Nolan’s movie Inception. In one of the scenes, Saito asks Cobb a beautiful question as they embark in their dreaming adventure: “Don’t you want to take a leap of faith? Or become an old man, filled with regret, waiting to die alone!” As I ponder that question, the response becomes clearer. I want to take a leap of faith, believe, and dream of the possibility of hope and a God in whom there is no violence, even in the face of death and possible nothingness.