Keep on the watch

Late in my last run as a Jehovah's Witness, I heard a song by former Beatle George Harrison. The song was called "The Art of Dying." This song's lyrics had echoes of eastern philosophy and religion lying under a festive, almost party-like instrumentation. I hated it. I tuned the lyrics out as soon as I realized they advocated some kind of fluffy notion of death. The Art of Dying? Yeah right. There is no art in death. It's a horrible thing that God will eliminate. What kind of fool would think there could be art in losing everything you have?  "There'll come a time when all of us must leave here Then nothing sister Mary can do Will keep me here with you As nothing in this life that I've been trying Could equal or surpass the art of dying Do you believe me?" I did not believe him.  By the time I found this tune, I'd seen my father and Grandmother pass away. There was no grace in their exits. There was no art to their depa

There was a time when I was at a friends home when some of his extended family dropped in. I was used to this happening when I visited this particular friend. He had a large family and his aunt usually dropped off her daughter to play with us. This time, however, there was a boy, a toddler. I was about 10 or 11 at the time. I walked over to greet the youngster, and as I lifted my hand for a high five he recoiled into a full-bodied standing fetal retreat. The adults in the room all immediately chastised him "Stop that bobby! No one is going to hit you." I, having been on the receiving end of corporal punishment had never seen anything like that in my short life. When I got home I told my parents about this boy and they're responded flatly "Someone is abusing that boy." And that was that. There was no caution or alarm from my family. Though I never saw that boy again, I wonder how he's doing and if he ever escaped whatever horrors caused him to fear even the o