Does the Devil Deserve to Mourn?

Does the devil deserve to mourn? - 5/1/2025, sketch on iPad with Procreate

A second draft of a larger question

We’d all been expecting Grandpa to die. Cancer was passed down the roots of my dad’s family tree, and he was no exception. By the time he underwent his second or third attempt of chemotherapy, everyone was bracing for a bitter farewell. When we were advised that he should be transferred to a larger nursing hospital, the doctor didn’t even need to add that we had little time left.

This is the second piece of writing about him, so it’s easy to assume Grandpa and I were very close. But we maintained a barely cordial relationship, at least on my part: the only times I would visit him was during Seollal, Chuseok, or some other government-mandated holiday. On the contrary, my cousins loved and doted on him, cherishing the moments they shared as family. I always pointed a finger at my grandparents’ and my cousins’ shared belief in Christianity to explain why they had more opportunities to build that bond.

I noticed only after Grandpa couldn’t sit up or speak how striking the distance between us was. People often say the fight between an individual and their illness is over once the patient gives up. The few times I visited Grandpa in his hospital bed, I could see how quickly his health had started to deteriorate, and when he had lost his mobility, it struck me how hard it would be to not give up in this situation. 

The adults made desperate attempts to make him reminisce about happy memories we’d shared to keep his motivation to live ongoing. My uncles and aunts rambled on about the dinners they’d enjoyed with Grandpa at church, my cousins talked about moments they’d shared with Grandpa as a child, and even my parents could milk out anecdotes about the interactions they had with him pre-marriage. When my turn came over, the only things I could cough out were events in our family meetings and times when Grandpa had congratulated my achievements at school.

The moment I felt what “sin” may feel like to believers was during prayer sessions. I’d known that our different religious views could eventually impact our relationship, but the sickening sensation in my stomach as the harmonies of the songs the priests sang filled the hospital room sealed the deal.

I wondered, through the dying flickering of life in his face, whether he would ever know what I felt in that moment. Spoiled by the blessing of not experiencing many deaths, the only ideas I had of death were those that framed old, dying people as some transcendent wise being. Would Grandpa breathe his last delicate wisp of air in understanding? Would he be able to sense the dishonesty behind my prayers, the skepticism underneath my praise of the Lord? Would he be disappointed? Disappointed that one of his dear grandchildren would be the bearer of such evil?

I was the devil when we mourned. When we spoke words of grief and of despair, I sealed my mouth shut, instead silently scavenging the blindingly white hospital room for a hiding place to cower in. The goodness within me replaced, not with greed, but with pathetic and ugly feelings of distrust, of doubt, and of guilt. Did I even deserve to be with my family, to corrupt that serene air with my presence? 

An equally ugly cry gurgled in my throat when I heard of his passing through my mother’s voice on the opposite side of the cold phone. Again, I was one of the few family members that were not present in this last gathering – my cousins, those who were brave enough, rushed to the hospital as soon as Grandpa’s condition rapidly declined. 

I was scared to see him die. I was scared to be naked, to face my hideous nature in the moment where the soul flits from the body to the possible heavens above. It seemed that somehow, in the moments where the light feathers of the soul left to the skiesfrom Grandpa’s weakened body, he would be able to see my soul too. He would notice the absence of faith within me, and on a journey that should be peaceful, he would be writhing in agony and in disgust. I would fuel a hate in him that he had never felt before in life.

All because of my inability to accept. None of these feelings, and none of this guilt, would have been experienced if I had only just believed. Believed in a God that is benevolent, that is warm, and that is perfect. If I had just swallowed my hesitance, if I had just followed my relatives to Church, if I had not thought so negatively of this religion that was the backbone of our family because of a few demeaning bible verses. Perhaps then I would have been able to mourn properly. But there is no use to these thoughts now. It’s been almost two years since Grandpa died. The funeral clothes folded and buried, the ceremonial flowers discarded. All that remains is a question, one that haunts the air which I breathe on this land, in place of a more worthy, faithful person like him.

Does the devil deserve to mourn?