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Oh, How I Weep Over Life

by Samuel Dumas  
4/23/2020 / Death

Though I cry much over my dead, my protracted weeping with joy is over the life I knew while it was within my reach, and the now falling honor of the billions of unclaimed details that now seem to have become sharply vivid. From that life that was shared, I received a PhD's education from the many good deeds I have known them to do.

Now in Wake, as I drift through the mourners, I weep also for the first fruits of joy and faith and love which I see among these gathered persons of interest, and my life chooses to travel momentarily side-by-their-side, as they tell a stranger all the words of their lives. Our joys, our memories which presently fill this talking pallor, mark the beginning of our celebration of the fames in the longs and shorts that was this departed friend. And as we sit under a subdued voice-cloud, their lost-in-thought glower, which is now turned toward me, teaches me ever closer toward their humanity. Our somber sharing is brimmed with enough glow-for-good that it expands my heart anew: our back-words about this mutual comrade once again draws all the happiness from my weep-works. These swells of high capped seas finally overreach the shores of my sentiments with vows to not leave these left behind comfortless during our next years after.

This Reversal of Griefs

My weeping over life,I believe, is similar to the songs that are harped out by the heavenlies over the one repentant prayer. Their trig elation surely must be the same as mine, for they believe also that if that one new minister continues from life unto life and grows from faith unto faith, that that life will become their heavenly brother for the rest of eternity. And, yes, there is reason for expression of an even greater monumental joy, for it is said that the master of earth and sea and sky sometimes prayed all night that the thousands who followed after his bread and fish would not follow him in vain. In each new creation that came and followed him closely, he took divine pleasure in, knowing that if his spirit would continue to grow in this child, that the triumphant savior would, like the angels, joy amidst loudest wells of gladness, upon seeing his father weeping over each alive-again soul; that he would be satisfied on hearing his father joy over all the redeemed with singing; and then be rested in his rest, as he watches him fulfill and refulfill a God Father's promise by showering, without measure, the heritage of infinite love down into their pure immortal bones for as long as forever shall last.

This is why I drob more tears for the living than I do for the dead, for the living bring secret blessings to my walk onward. The Dead have gone in to take their family sleep. They have already concluded their ‘for why will you die,’ but the living whom  I meet in these slow and quiet chambers must—indeed all of us must—discover the ‘for why we must live,’ and teach and touch-together as kin for the sake of other earth-livers who must, in all eventualities, die.

(Drob, noun, a traditional dish usually served at Easter made from minced up offal and entrails (often of lamb), seasoned with herbs, and boiled in the caul or omentum, similar to haggis.)

—Dumas fils

As an educator no part of the Bible is of greater value than are its biographies. Conversely extended: for a biographee, what they are is what has been written (educated) into them; these inner-man things are what they will love writing about....

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