He could not give up the flesh.In the moments before we leave foreverwe want to say what he did:I have hands, feet, bones; touch me,and is there anything for breakfast?We are tethered to tubes,nails hammered hard,spear in our side, soonto pass through, but stillthis is my body,with the scar on my hand from the bike accident,the lungs shredded with chemo,the broken left foot never quite healed,but still all I have ever known:this is my body.If I rise, let it be notas a ghost, no metaphorfor new life; please somethinglike this body, some flesh,something I can understand.
Lucy Bregman and Allen Verhey on dying well, Tom Long on why men avoid church, Amy Frykholm interviews Tripoli priest Hamdy Sedky Daoud.
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