Russians touch death a lot more than we do. No amount of anthropology or hearing stories can really prepare a person for this.
The first time I went to a Russian funeral was in January of this year when my friend's grandmother died. My friend called me up and asked me to come to the funeral, since I had met his grandmother. She always spoke of the day when I chopped wood for her. I traveled off to the other side of the city and the river to her house. My friends parents, and other relatives and neighbours too were all taking their turn to sit down near her open casket in the main room. I took my turn, I was sat down on a chair right near her face. There I was staring into her face, the face of a deceased person. It was very confronting for me. The most difficult part was that I sat there for many minutes, as were the other mourners. I did not want to disrespect anyone by getting up too quickly. So I sat as long as other mourners did, which was a lot for me, someone who had never been that close to death.
Sure, I have been to funerals before. I remember the first time a close friend of mine died back in 2004. He died at an early age of 43 from pancreatic cancer. As the pallbearers carried his coffin out of the church I broke down in uncontrollable tears, something I did not expect would happen. I have also been there to throw the dirt on top of the coffin of my aunties husband when he died. So I have touched death as much as my culture is used to. In my culture people may walk up to an open casket and say goodbye to the person for a few moments, others preferring not to look at all. We keep death at more of a distance than Russians do.
On our floor in our apartment building there was an elderly couple. The husband may have had Alzheimer's, I am not sure. I remember one time when he knocked on our door all confused. His wife had gone out for a little while and he was scared, he did not know what to do without her. There I was, with another neighbour I called on for help talking to him, trying to comfort him, when his wife came home. She had evidently been gone for only a short time, but this was too much for him. So this meant when ever she needed to go to the shop, she had to take him with her. He walked very, very slowly, it was such a chore for him to go anywhere. His wife obviously had a large burden to take care of him, but she also loved him a lot.
On Monday our neighbour, the wife knocked on our door. Could I come and help carry in her husband from the ambulance? I was about to take Abigail to her kindergarten, but knew that our neighbours needed help, so Abigail had to wait. Even this experience was something I was unprepared for. I went outside to the ambulance, knocked on the window to rouse the sleeping ambulance driver, watched as the wife of the old man called out to a passerby to ask if he could help too. The ambulance driver opened the back door to reveal a very frail dying man. The driver started to wheel the stretcher out, the wheel got stuck. Then the driver started to jiggle the stretcher up to free the wheel. "Wait!" I implored as I ran around to the side door, climbed in and freed the stuck wheel from the back, so as to not jiggle our frail neighbour and cause him unnecessary discomfort.
I was feeling just a little bit shocked to see a dying person treated in such a way. I assumed that we would carry the stretcher in. The stretcher was just two poles and some canvass, so that would not do, it would be too uncomfortable I was told. So four of us (including another elderly neighbour) carried our frail dying neighbour on canvass with no poles up the steps and into our building. Our neighbour was groaning, I grabbed his hand for a moment and said to him "May God give you peace, may God give you peace." This was obviously a terrible struggle for him. We got to the elevator, which is not very big, and we had to almost squeeze him in there. I was standing there with my legs jamming the doors open so they would not slam shut on our frail neighbour.
Finally we managed to get him on to his bed in his apartment. His wife told me that he suffered a heart attack on the weekend. Obviously he had been brought home to die. Death is not a detached thing here in Russia, sanitised in some disinfected hospital, it is experienced in intimate home settings. Others left and I talked with his wife. I offered to pray for her and her husband. She readily received this. We went in to his bedroom and kneeled on the floor as I laid hands on them both and asked the Lord to give them both peace at this time.
I left the wife and returned home to then quickly take Abigail to her kindergarten classes. Later that evening I felt a prompting from the Holy Spirit to knock on the old lady's door. I felt that I should offer to read him some scriptures by his bedside. The scriptures that came to mind were Psalm 23, Revelation 21 about heaven and John 3 about eternal life. I knocked on the lady's door and apologised for disturbing her, and explained that if she was agreeable I would be available to read to him. She thanked me and said she was not against this, but that a priest had been there to see him on the weekend. I politely took my leave and blessed her. I thought to myself, well I have been obedient to what the Lord asked me, and treated her with respect at the same time. Melody took some food over to her, knowing that it would be difficult for the lady to concentrate on preparation.
I had this sense though that perhaps there would be a more appropriate time when I should be reading to the old frail man, but I did nothing about it, I just said a prayer for him.
Then yesterday at about a quarter to three the old lady knocked on my door again. I was home by myself with PJ asleep. Could I come and read to him like I had previously offered? Only when I had free time of course. Melody came home fifteen minutes later. I was due at the language school in an hour. I took the bible and the prepared pages were marked. I had already practised reading them in Russian.
I entered the apartment and sat down on a stool next to his bed. Did I need to be alone with him?- the old lady asked me. I told her of course not and that she should come and sit down in the room too. I read slowly, carefully, loudly and as poetically as I could. The old lady called out to her husband to make sure he could hear me. He gave a slight groan of acknowledgement. I read each of the scriptures and then prayed for him. I told him that his Lord Jesus was waiting for him. (When someone is not dying to suggest death is wrong, but when they are, to not acknowledge it is far worse- so I took courage to acknowledge that he was dying.) I asked our neighbour lady if we should make the sign of the cross together (I am not orthodox and do not usually do this, but felt that she would want to). She found his cross and fumbled to put it around his neck. I made the sign of the cross on myself and on him.
We sat for a moment and then I realised something. I turned to our neighbour lady and said, "Is he breathing?" She had a look for herself. "He has died!" and she began to cry. Even though I don't know these people very much at all, I immediately reached out to give her a hug and comfort her. A few moments later she asked me, "has he definitely died?" This was difficult for me. I had never experienced this before. I felt his pulse and there was nothing. But perhaps his breathing had been feint that we did not notice. But I certainly felt that he had died, as did she.
In the moments after death our neighbour lady began to do the things she knew she must. The mirrors needed to be covered up. I wondered why at first. I then remembered how superstitious Russians are. I helped her, I may not be superstitious myself and may not even approve, but I was not about to impose on someone's most private moment and correct them otherwise. We went around the apartment and covered every mirror, some too high for her to reach. I offered to stay with her and I also offered to leave, what ever was most comfortable for her. I thought that perhaps it was better for me to leave and she told me not to cancel my teaching.
After class I bought four red carnations at the flower shop in the market. It must always be an even number. I spoke with my Russian teacher at the language school who explained to me that mirrors are covered up so that a person's spirit does not go to another world and get all confused and trapped there. She readily told me that this was Russian paganism and that all Russians do this, and that yes the Orthodox church saw it as a sin, but everyone did it anyway. When I asked her if God's love was better than fear, she answered yes, definitely. Nevertheless she would do the same herself for fear of what would happen if she did not.
I went around to the neighbour's place after class to give her the flowers. Her daughters were there at this point. They told me the funeral is on Saturday. His body will be in a casket in their living room for all to see today and tomorrow. I know that I should go and pay my respects one more time. This is a difficult thing to do though. Death is such a tangible thing for Russians and I find it so confronting. This is the first time in my life that I have been there when somebody died, also an experience that I am now having to process.
Nothing can prepare you for some cross cultural experiences, other than the experiences themselves.
The first time I went to a Russian funeral was in January of this year when my friend's grandmother died. My friend called me up and asked me to come to the funeral, since I had met his grandmother. She always spoke of the day when I chopped wood for her. I traveled off to the other side of the city and the river to her house. My friends parents, and other relatives and neighbours too were all taking their turn to sit down near her open casket in the main room. I took my turn, I was sat down on a chair right near her face. There I was staring into her face, the face of a deceased person. It was very confronting for me. The most difficult part was that I sat there for many minutes, as were the other mourners. I did not want to disrespect anyone by getting up too quickly. So I sat as long as other mourners did, which was a lot for me, someone who had never been that close to death.
Sure, I have been to funerals before. I remember the first time a close friend of mine died back in 2004. He died at an early age of 43 from pancreatic cancer. As the pallbearers carried his coffin out of the church I broke down in uncontrollable tears, something I did not expect would happen. I have also been there to throw the dirt on top of the coffin of my aunties husband when he died. So I have touched death as much as my culture is used to. In my culture people may walk up to an open casket and say goodbye to the person for a few moments, others preferring not to look at all. We keep death at more of a distance than Russians do.
On our floor in our apartment building there was an elderly couple. The husband may have had Alzheimer's, I am not sure. I remember one time when he knocked on our door all confused. His wife had gone out for a little while and he was scared, he did not know what to do without her. There I was, with another neighbour I called on for help talking to him, trying to comfort him, when his wife came home. She had evidently been gone for only a short time, but this was too much for him. So this meant when ever she needed to go to the shop, she had to take him with her. He walked very, very slowly, it was such a chore for him to go anywhere. His wife obviously had a large burden to take care of him, but she also loved him a lot.
On Monday our neighbour, the wife knocked on our door. Could I come and help carry in her husband from the ambulance? I was about to take Abigail to her kindergarten, but knew that our neighbours needed help, so Abigail had to wait. Even this experience was something I was unprepared for. I went outside to the ambulance, knocked on the window to rouse the sleeping ambulance driver, watched as the wife of the old man called out to a passerby to ask if he could help too. The ambulance driver opened the back door to reveal a very frail dying man. The driver started to wheel the stretcher out, the wheel got stuck. Then the driver started to jiggle the stretcher up to free the wheel. "Wait!" I implored as I ran around to the side door, climbed in and freed the stuck wheel from the back, so as to not jiggle our frail neighbour and cause him unnecessary discomfort.
I was feeling just a little bit shocked to see a dying person treated in such a way. I assumed that we would carry the stretcher in. The stretcher was just two poles and some canvass, so that would not do, it would be too uncomfortable I was told. So four of us (including another elderly neighbour) carried our frail dying neighbour on canvass with no poles up the steps and into our building. Our neighbour was groaning, I grabbed his hand for a moment and said to him "May God give you peace, may God give you peace." This was obviously a terrible struggle for him. We got to the elevator, which is not very big, and we had to almost squeeze him in there. I was standing there with my legs jamming the doors open so they would not slam shut on our frail neighbour.
Finally we managed to get him on to his bed in his apartment. His wife told me that he suffered a heart attack on the weekend. Obviously he had been brought home to die. Death is not a detached thing here in Russia, sanitised in some disinfected hospital, it is experienced in intimate home settings. Others left and I talked with his wife. I offered to pray for her and her husband. She readily received this. We went in to his bedroom and kneeled on the floor as I laid hands on them both and asked the Lord to give them both peace at this time.
I left the wife and returned home to then quickly take Abigail to her kindergarten classes. Later that evening I felt a prompting from the Holy Spirit to knock on the old lady's door. I felt that I should offer to read him some scriptures by his bedside. The scriptures that came to mind were Psalm 23, Revelation 21 about heaven and John 3 about eternal life. I knocked on the lady's door and apologised for disturbing her, and explained that if she was agreeable I would be available to read to him. She thanked me and said she was not against this, but that a priest had been there to see him on the weekend. I politely took my leave and blessed her. I thought to myself, well I have been obedient to what the Lord asked me, and treated her with respect at the same time. Melody took some food over to her, knowing that it would be difficult for the lady to concentrate on preparation.
I had this sense though that perhaps there would be a more appropriate time when I should be reading to the old frail man, but I did nothing about it, I just said a prayer for him.
Then yesterday at about a quarter to three the old lady knocked on my door again. I was home by myself with PJ asleep. Could I come and read to him like I had previously offered? Only when I had free time of course. Melody came home fifteen minutes later. I was due at the language school in an hour. I took the bible and the prepared pages were marked. I had already practised reading them in Russian.
I entered the apartment and sat down on a stool next to his bed. Did I need to be alone with him?- the old lady asked me. I told her of course not and that she should come and sit down in the room too. I read slowly, carefully, loudly and as poetically as I could. The old lady called out to her husband to make sure he could hear me. He gave a slight groan of acknowledgement. I read each of the scriptures and then prayed for him. I told him that his Lord Jesus was waiting for him. (When someone is not dying to suggest death is wrong, but when they are, to not acknowledge it is far worse- so I took courage to acknowledge that he was dying.) I asked our neighbour lady if we should make the sign of the cross together (I am not orthodox and do not usually do this, but felt that she would want to). She found his cross and fumbled to put it around his neck. I made the sign of the cross on myself and on him.
We sat for a moment and then I realised something. I turned to our neighbour lady and said, "Is he breathing?" She had a look for herself. "He has died!" and she began to cry. Even though I don't know these people very much at all, I immediately reached out to give her a hug and comfort her. A few moments later she asked me, "has he definitely died?" This was difficult for me. I had never experienced this before. I felt his pulse and there was nothing. But perhaps his breathing had been feint that we did not notice. But I certainly felt that he had died, as did she.
In the moments after death our neighbour lady began to do the things she knew she must. The mirrors needed to be covered up. I wondered why at first. I then remembered how superstitious Russians are. I helped her, I may not be superstitious myself and may not even approve, but I was not about to impose on someone's most private moment and correct them otherwise. We went around the apartment and covered every mirror, some too high for her to reach. I offered to stay with her and I also offered to leave, what ever was most comfortable for her. I thought that perhaps it was better for me to leave and she told me not to cancel my teaching.
After class I bought four red carnations at the flower shop in the market. It must always be an even number. I spoke with my Russian teacher at the language school who explained to me that mirrors are covered up so that a person's spirit does not go to another world and get all confused and trapped there. She readily told me that this was Russian paganism and that all Russians do this, and that yes the Orthodox church saw it as a sin, but everyone did it anyway. When I asked her if God's love was better than fear, she answered yes, definitely. Nevertheless she would do the same herself for fear of what would happen if she did not.
I went around to the neighbour's place after class to give her the flowers. Her daughters were there at this point. They told me the funeral is on Saturday. His body will be in a casket in their living room for all to see today and tomorrow. I know that I should go and pay my respects one more time. This is a difficult thing to do though. Death is such a tangible thing for Russians and I find it so confronting. This is the first time in my life that I have been there when somebody died, also an experience that I am now having to process.
Nothing can prepare you for some cross cultural experiences, other than the experiences themselves.
3 comments:
Wow, that is such an amazing series of events! Praise God...
Yes, death is confronting, and the great equaliser of all. I have had far more encounters with death in the past 16 months than I want to for a long time. My first experience of a russian death and funeral was very confronting, and yet very worthwhile. I have been able to take personal lessons on board. I now try to spend time with the body if I can as a way to help me process the death and that the person's soul is no longer there. Difficult, but helpful for me. I understand that others might not feel the same way. The other thing I've taken is the freedom to cry as an important part of healing. The russians have a poem about the tears of grief. If I find it, I'll add it to these comments, but essentially it's about not keeping them inside of you because their potency will destroy you if you do.
Thanks Lisette, I would like to hear that poem, and of course discuss this experience with you.
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