The Thin Veil
By Gerald Morton
I’m writing today about a personal experience of death. This story in its entirety is factual, more about life and light than dark, resurrection than death. It’s the recounting of my mother’s death and the Thin Veil. Her death remains for me a treasured memory kept in its pristine state, this final closing of the door with a key that turns only once in the lock, a bolt without return. In my mind every detail remains as bright and clear as yesterday.
In 1972, I was the sole member of my family to witness mother’s death. In her will she left only the heritage of her ancient faith, the legacy of her way. I don’t wish to canonise my mother who in her quiet way practised her simple faith, breathed to pray her beaded prayers, remained a bit player in the church’s play, her with daily prayers, lines and script. She always paid her dues, held church’s view mind and heart. Faith for her wasn’t rented by the day. She led a secluded, grey, colourless life. They said she worked herself to the grave. I witnessed it, thought of it beside her bed.
In her last few days, her one regret was that her room was changed, the one that faced the east. This was not to her faith, this loss of eastern view and its early morning sun, the place she’d wait and pass through gate, thinnest veil, and meet the Risen Son on birthing day.
In darkest time, in that nightshift wait for early seam between night and morn - no dream, no illusion of the time - her room from muted glow was flooded with Light. It penetrated every nook, illumined every crack, redeemed the dark throughout the room. This light made high noon day dark and was not explained by early morning sun still to come. I searched outside, around, but it was barely light. For me, a hard-core sceptic, it calmed every fear, new born tear, all unspoken wrangle, miscreant tangle, mind in a mangle. Mother now was dead.
In this deathly silent time and place, a tray, a trolley, gone suddenly awry. Its percussion magnified like a cannon gun. I went out of the room and looked – found no lost souls, no staff to be consoled, nor was it found later in report.
Then I returned in direction of the room. I was unable to enter. There was no longer any room, screen or bed. In its stead, a cloud of unknown souls gathered, beyond capacity of room to hold. If and when they spoke, I couldn’t hear or see. It seems I’d entered through thinnest veil. I fought my way through this crowd of witnesses I couldn’t see. I had unwittingly become voyeur to the fact of their presence.
Mother was there in full reveal, no longer dead. Her bed was replaced by a cross, the one she carried all her days. Several helped her to her feet and removed her garments, her lifetime rags, stained by the work of all her days. I noticed their hands were brown, strong, well-defined tradesman’s hands, not unlike a carpenter’s. I thought, “Could it possibly be the Galilean?” They replaced her rags with a white, white garment - no blemish, crease, stitch, or thread. She reminded me of a Bride. There was no gesture that she gave to me of recognise, no farewell smile, only a beatific beam to this company of friends. Then she left.
I asked someone, for I was rent, why no parting word or wave, why and what is this today, and who are these that gently said, “It’s her wedding day.” Nothing else.
I looked again and mother now lay on bed. She had run her race and now was “where souls never die”. And I returned to my daily ways. My grief was spent, now refreshed. I kept it in my head. Who’d believe such a tale, the Thin Veil.
In 1972, I was the sole member of my family to witness mother’s death. In her will she left only the heritage of her ancient faith, the legacy of her way. I don’t wish to canonise my mother who in her quiet way practised her simple faith, breathed to pray her beaded prayers, remained a bit player in the church’s play, her with daily prayers, lines and script. She always paid her dues, held church’s view mind and heart. Faith for her wasn’t rented by the day. She led a secluded, grey, colourless life. They said she worked herself to the grave. I witnessed it, thought of it beside her bed.
In her last few days, her one regret was that her room was changed, the one that faced the east. This was not to her faith, this loss of eastern view and its early morning sun, the place she’d wait and pass through gate, thinnest veil, and meet the Risen Son on birthing day.
In darkest time, in that nightshift wait for early seam between night and morn - no dream, no illusion of the time - her room from muted glow was flooded with Light. It penetrated every nook, illumined every crack, redeemed the dark throughout the room. This light made high noon day dark and was not explained by early morning sun still to come. I searched outside, around, but it was barely light. For me, a hard-core sceptic, it calmed every fear, new born tear, all unspoken wrangle, miscreant tangle, mind in a mangle. Mother now was dead.
In this deathly silent time and place, a tray, a trolley, gone suddenly awry. Its percussion magnified like a cannon gun. I went out of the room and looked – found no lost souls, no staff to be consoled, nor was it found later in report.
Then I returned in direction of the room. I was unable to enter. There was no longer any room, screen or bed. In its stead, a cloud of unknown souls gathered, beyond capacity of room to hold. If and when they spoke, I couldn’t hear or see. It seems I’d entered through thinnest veil. I fought my way through this crowd of witnesses I couldn’t see. I had unwittingly become voyeur to the fact of their presence.
Mother was there in full reveal, no longer dead. Her bed was replaced by a cross, the one she carried all her days. Several helped her to her feet and removed her garments, her lifetime rags, stained by the work of all her days. I noticed their hands were brown, strong, well-defined tradesman’s hands, not unlike a carpenter’s. I thought, “Could it possibly be the Galilean?” They replaced her rags with a white, white garment - no blemish, crease, stitch, or thread. She reminded me of a Bride. There was no gesture that she gave to me of recognise, no farewell smile, only a beatific beam to this company of friends. Then she left.
I asked someone, for I was rent, why no parting word or wave, why and what is this today, and who are these that gently said, “It’s her wedding day.” Nothing else.
I looked again and mother now lay on bed. She had run her race and now was “where souls never die”. And I returned to my daily ways. My grief was spent, now refreshed. I kept it in my head. Who’d believe such a tale, the Thin Veil.