Dear People of Christ Church,
This week, I write with a mixture of joy and sadness. Joy at the amazing gift of the ten year anniversary of ministry celebration on Sunday—truly, it is a marvelous gift to be your priest—and sadness, with the death yesterday of Christ Church friend Paula Tatarunis. Paula had been on a complicated road of recovery from an AVM in her brain that came to light in February, and had been in various states of consciousness since then, almost recovering in April and having a setback when her brain began to bleed in a procedure intended to prevent future strokes. Paula was a brilliant, creative, dedicated, thoughtful, and just generally remarkable human being. She went from lurking in the back pew to being in charge of the altar guild in about five minutes, and helped to keep the choir together in some pretty lean times. She read everything from classical and medieval theology to inter-church debates over Anglican polity with the same intellectual fervor, humor, and some skepticism. She was a doctor at the clinic at Lawrence Memorial in Medford, but had also spent time as a “jailhouse doc” at MCI Norfolk, with a deep passion for justice for the men who were incarcerated there. Paula never rested on anything so simple as tradition or custom in her own spirituality, but was unfailingly dedicated to embodying the wider church tradition, setting the altar with a military precision pretty impressive for someone who was more of a pacifist.
Over the years, Paula came to find that she and Jesus were working through some differences that felt irreconcilable to her. The amount of translation she found herself needing to do to be in church was just too much. The mystery of God for Paula was silence and stillness, out taking pictures of dead weeds. God was harder to find for her in the particularity of Jesus and the practices of the church. We emailed off and on throughout her sojourn away—she was always still wrestling, always still seeking. Last December she came one Sunday and as we were emailing afterwards said it felt good, but that she felt like her vocation was in the outer darkness. She had so much light, though. It was a privilege to be her priest and a daunting wonder to plan her funeral for this Saturday.
I don’t know how other clergy do it, but I fall in love with each of you every single time, and it’s always bound for heartbreak. I cry at your funerals and your baptisms, just astonished at the grace of God and the fleeting nature of it all. This, of course, is the way of the cross—it’s the shape of human life that loss and grief weave through unbearable beauty. One of the graces of the time of accompanying Paula through her journey these last months has been getting to know her husband, Darrell, who, though he dismisses himself as an “agnostic Jewish heathen” shows a love for his wife so deep I can only see God there. The way of the cross is the way of life, as, too, resurrection. Whatever Paula finally thought about the theology of the Trinity, I am so sure that Jesus was just as in love with Paula as those of us who were blessed enough to know her in her life.
Services for Paula will be at Christ Church this Saturday at 1pm, with a larger memorial service with poetry and jazz planned for late October.
Blessings,
Sara+
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Thursday, September 17, 2015
Friday, May 29, 2015
End of Life Conversation
Dear People of Christ Church,
Tuesday, June 2, I hope you’ll join me for our “end of life issues” conversation. This is the third or fourth year our parish has offered this time, and there just aren’t enough words to say how important it is to grapple with these hard questions.
I write about death in this space a lot. I write about death when someone beloved to our congregation dies. I write about death when we host these conversations every year. I write about death as we get close to Thanksgiving—having everyone at the table is a good time to talk about end of life questions. I think about death a lot. But thinking and writing about death a lot isn’t the same as being okay with it.
And that’s why we have to practice.
That’s why we have to talk about death again and again and again, until we can get it from our brains into our hearts and back to our brains that death is part of life, that we have reason to trust God and trust those we love, that the “One who raised Jesus Christ from the dead will also give new live to our mortal bodies” through God’s indwelling Spirit (BCP 501). God is love. The love that makes us grieve for one another is the same love that gives us everlasting life. Our love for each other and the love of God are of one piece. God’s love weaves in and out of our own lives in each of us.
For those of us who are left behind, though, death is terrifying. We know who we are in relation to those around us. Our parents, friends, spouses, children—they help make us who we are. We fear not having those we love. Who will we be without them? So it seems easier to save up the hard conversations for later. It seems like maybe if we don’t talk about death, it won’t be real. But our denial of death doesn’t make it less real. The less we talk about what we want for the end of our life, the harder it is to face when it actually happens.
What kind of care do you want in case of a traumatic injury? Under what circumstances would you want to initiate a “Do Not Resuscitate” order? Is it important is to you to be at home when you die? What hymns do you want to be sung at your funeral? Do you want someone to offer a eulogy about you? What Gospel do you want to have preached? Are you a “many dwelling places” kind of person, or do you go for the beatitudes? Have you filled out a health care proxy form, and does your doctor have a copy? Would you consider leaving a gift to your church, or other organizations that are important to you, in your will?
The Apostle Paul wrote to the church in Rome,
I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8: 38-39)
Thanks be to God!
For our end of life issues “workbook,” see A Christian Prepares for Death
Blessings,
Sara+
Tuesday, June 2, I hope you’ll join me for our “end of life issues” conversation. This is the third or fourth year our parish has offered this time, and there just aren’t enough words to say how important it is to grapple with these hard questions.
I write about death in this space a lot. I write about death when someone beloved to our congregation dies. I write about death when we host these conversations every year. I write about death as we get close to Thanksgiving—having everyone at the table is a good time to talk about end of life questions. I think about death a lot. But thinking and writing about death a lot isn’t the same as being okay with it.
And that’s why we have to practice.
That’s why we have to talk about death again and again and again, until we can get it from our brains into our hearts and back to our brains that death is part of life, that we have reason to trust God and trust those we love, that the “One who raised Jesus Christ from the dead will also give new live to our mortal bodies” through God’s indwelling Spirit (BCP 501). God is love. The love that makes us grieve for one another is the same love that gives us everlasting life. Our love for each other and the love of God are of one piece. God’s love weaves in and out of our own lives in each of us.
For those of us who are left behind, though, death is terrifying. We know who we are in relation to those around us. Our parents, friends, spouses, children—they help make us who we are. We fear not having those we love. Who will we be without them? So it seems easier to save up the hard conversations for later. It seems like maybe if we don’t talk about death, it won’t be real. But our denial of death doesn’t make it less real. The less we talk about what we want for the end of our life, the harder it is to face when it actually happens.
What kind of care do you want in case of a traumatic injury? Under what circumstances would you want to initiate a “Do Not Resuscitate” order? Is it important is to you to be at home when you die? What hymns do you want to be sung at your funeral? Do you want someone to offer a eulogy about you? What Gospel do you want to have preached? Are you a “many dwelling places” kind of person, or do you go for the beatitudes? Have you filled out a health care proxy form, and does your doctor have a copy? Would you consider leaving a gift to your church, or other organizations that are important to you, in your will?
The Apostle Paul wrote to the church in Rome,
I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8: 38-39)
Thanks be to God!
For our end of life issues “workbook,” see A Christian Prepares for Death
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, December 4, 2014
Thanksgiving Joy and Sorrow
Dear People of Christ Church,
Whenever I send out the e-crier during Thanksgiving week, I always share the litany from the prayer book for thanksgiving—a very theological idea for a secular holiday. This year, though, in addition to my gratitude for my life and our life together in this parish, I’m also carrying a heaviness of heart for our country, for the family of Michael Brown, and for all of the conflict, sorrow, and oppression that we are all enmeshed in in twenty first century America. There are so many wise people analyzing and speaking on this, so I won’t add to the sound waves other than to invite you to prayer and to remind us of our faith in a God who “makes all things new,” who also needs our hands and voices to make justice in the world. Every life, of every person of every color, matters. For an excellent reflection, see this from Bishop of Washington Marianne Budde and Dean Gary Hall of the National Cathedral. Our readings for the first Sunday are about keeping awake; we need to be awake not just to where Jesus is coming, but where we need to bring him.
On a very different note, but yet another question of life and death, I also want to pass on resources for conversations about end of life care. Every year, our own Rob Atwood, a social worker for hospice care and I lead a conversation about planning for the end of life. What kind of medical interventions do you think you want? Who is authorized to make those decisions for you? What hymns shall we sing at your funeral? Answering as many of these questions in advance as possible is one of the greatest gifts you can give your loved ones. The guide Rob and I put together is here.
Some other resources:
MOLST Medical Orders for Life-Sustaining Treatment is a Massachusetts state document that presents clear and concise summaries of choices that are made at the end of life; this is filled out by a patient in cooperation with their doctor
A 2013 WBUR story on home death care has fabulous information. One of the people they interview likens it to the choice for a home birth as not right for everyone, but still a right that everyone has.
The Conversation Project was founded by journalist Ellen Goodman and has locals like Liz Walker and Donald Berwick among their advising team, has great conversation starters and a “starter kit” you can download to get yourself thinking about what you want for the end of your life.
Finally, the Litany for Thanksgiving…
Let us give thanks to God for all the gifts so freely bestowed upon us.
For the beauty and wonder of your creation, in earth and sky and sea,
We thank you, God.
For all that is gracious in the lives of your people, revealing the image of Christ,
We thank you, God.
For our daily food and drink, our homes and families, and our friends,
We thank you, God.
For minds to think, and hearts to love, and hands to serve,
We thank you, God.
For health and strength to work, and leisure to rest and play,
We thank you, God.
For the brave and courageous, who are patient in suffering and faithful in adversity,
We thank you, God.
For all valiant seekers after truth, liberty, and justice,
We thank you, God.
For the communion of saints, in all times and places,
We thank you, God.
Above all, we give you thanks for the great mercies and promises given to us in Christ Jesus our God;
To Christ be praise and glory, with you, O Father, and the Holy Spirit, now and for ever.
Blessings,
Sara+
Whenever I send out the e-crier during Thanksgiving week, I always share the litany from the prayer book for thanksgiving—a very theological idea for a secular holiday. This year, though, in addition to my gratitude for my life and our life together in this parish, I’m also carrying a heaviness of heart for our country, for the family of Michael Brown, and for all of the conflict, sorrow, and oppression that we are all enmeshed in in twenty first century America. There are so many wise people analyzing and speaking on this, so I won’t add to the sound waves other than to invite you to prayer and to remind us of our faith in a God who “makes all things new,” who also needs our hands and voices to make justice in the world. Every life, of every person of every color, matters. For an excellent reflection, see this from Bishop of Washington Marianne Budde and Dean Gary Hall of the National Cathedral. Our readings for the first Sunday are about keeping awake; we need to be awake not just to where Jesus is coming, but where we need to bring him.
On a very different note, but yet another question of life and death, I also want to pass on resources for conversations about end of life care. Every year, our own Rob Atwood, a social worker for hospice care and I lead a conversation about planning for the end of life. What kind of medical interventions do you think you want? Who is authorized to make those decisions for you? What hymns shall we sing at your funeral? Answering as many of these questions in advance as possible is one of the greatest gifts you can give your loved ones. The guide Rob and I put together is here.
Some other resources:
MOLST Medical Orders for Life-Sustaining Treatment is a Massachusetts state document that presents clear and concise summaries of choices that are made at the end of life; this is filled out by a patient in cooperation with their doctor
A 2013 WBUR story on home death care has fabulous information. One of the people they interview likens it to the choice for a home birth as not right for everyone, but still a right that everyone has.
The Conversation Project was founded by journalist Ellen Goodman and has locals like Liz Walker and Donald Berwick among their advising team, has great conversation starters and a “starter kit” you can download to get yourself thinking about what you want for the end of your life.
Finally, the Litany for Thanksgiving…
Let us give thanks to God for all the gifts so freely bestowed upon us.
For the beauty and wonder of your creation, in earth and sky and sea,
We thank you, God.
For all that is gracious in the lives of your people, revealing the image of Christ,
We thank you, God.
For our daily food and drink, our homes and families, and our friends,
We thank you, God.
For minds to think, and hearts to love, and hands to serve,
We thank you, God.
For health and strength to work, and leisure to rest and play,
We thank you, God.
For the brave and courageous, who are patient in suffering and faithful in adversity,
We thank you, God.
For all valiant seekers after truth, liberty, and justice,
We thank you, God.
For the communion of saints, in all times and places,
We thank you, God.
Above all, we give you thanks for the great mercies and promises given to us in Christ Jesus our God;
To Christ be praise and glory, with you, O Father, and the Holy Spirit, now and for ever.
Blessings,
Sara+
Friday, November 7, 2014
Fully Alive, to Joy and Grief
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week, of course, I’m still reeling a little after Bishop Tom’s funeral on Saturday, which was just marvelous. You can find the text of Brother Geoffrey’s sermon here. One of the things that I have long loved about being an Anglican is that our worship is actually intended to accomplish something—at Holy Week I always talk about how we do the last week of Jesus’ life, with foot washing and prayers at the cross and celebration of the resurrection. It’s not an abstraction. The funeral on Saturday, too, did what it was supposed to do.
We laughed at stories like Tom telling a visitor to the monastery who asked about it that he was the only one wearing a cross because he was “monk of the month.” We cried when we sang “King of Glory, King of Peace,” Tom’s favorite hymn. We cried when the silence seemed to stretch forever when Brother James, who was to begin the Prayers of the People, just couldn’t speak.
We shared in the Eucharist that is the Body and Blood of Christ who unites us and in whom we find our peace, in whom, the dead are not dead and we all rise to life again. We cried—again—when the brothers sang the Song of Simeon—“ Lord, you now have set your servant free to go in peace as you have promised/ For these eyes of mine have seen the Savior, whom you have prepared for all the world to see.”
And so he is set free, and so are we.
There’s a really important tension to hold when we stand in the middle of life and death. We can say that Tom is set free, along with all of those names we printed in the bulletin on Sunday for All Saints Day, and believe that he is free and sees the glory of God face to face. We hold that reality in one hand. We treasure that promise that Jesus Christ has gone before us and by the grace and miracle of God defeated the power of death. In our other hand, we hold the reality that life is a wonderful, astonishing, and precious gift. In its messiness and mud as well as in its joy and laughter, life is a gift. To welcome death as also a gift is not to diminish the importance of our course on earth—holy as the dying was, the living was holy, too.
Brother Geoffrey quoted the second century bishop Irenaeus of Lyon—“the glory of God is the human person fully alive.” Fully alive includes grief as well as joy. For now, I’m trying to take my time for both.
Blessings,
Sara+
This week, of course, I’m still reeling a little after Bishop Tom’s funeral on Saturday, which was just marvelous. You can find the text of Brother Geoffrey’s sermon here. One of the things that I have long loved about being an Anglican is that our worship is actually intended to accomplish something—at Holy Week I always talk about how we do the last week of Jesus’ life, with foot washing and prayers at the cross and celebration of the resurrection. It’s not an abstraction. The funeral on Saturday, too, did what it was supposed to do.
We laughed at stories like Tom telling a visitor to the monastery who asked about it that he was the only one wearing a cross because he was “monk of the month.” We cried when we sang “King of Glory, King of Peace,” Tom’s favorite hymn. We cried when the silence seemed to stretch forever when Brother James, who was to begin the Prayers of the People, just couldn’t speak.
We shared in the Eucharist that is the Body and Blood of Christ who unites us and in whom we find our peace, in whom, the dead are not dead and we all rise to life again. We cried—again—when the brothers sang the Song of Simeon—“ Lord, you now have set your servant free to go in peace as you have promised/ For these eyes of mine have seen the Savior, whom you have prepared for all the world to see.”
And so he is set free, and so are we.
There’s a really important tension to hold when we stand in the middle of life and death. We can say that Tom is set free, along with all of those names we printed in the bulletin on Sunday for All Saints Day, and believe that he is free and sees the glory of God face to face. We hold that reality in one hand. We treasure that promise that Jesus Christ has gone before us and by the grace and miracle of God defeated the power of death. In our other hand, we hold the reality that life is a wonderful, astonishing, and precious gift. In its messiness and mud as well as in its joy and laughter, life is a gift. To welcome death as also a gift is not to diminish the importance of our course on earth—holy as the dying was, the living was holy, too.
Brother Geoffrey quoted the second century bishop Irenaeus of Lyon—“the glory of God is the human person fully alive.” Fully alive includes grief as well as joy. For now, I’m trying to take my time for both.
Blessings,
Sara+
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Life and death questions
Dear People of Christ
Church
I hope to see a lot of you this week-tomorrow, the art show,
Saturday, the release of our own Gene Burkart's posthumous work of collected
essays (see below), and Sunday at the Mother's Day Walk. Our walking is part of
the diocesan-wide Season of Celebration and Service in honor of Bishop Shaw. It
has been such a gift for me to be formed as a priest in his witness for justice
and peace. Please join me in honoring Tom and in walking in the path of peace
with those whose loved ones have been killed, whose deaths are not mourned with
public grief and huge ceremony, whose killers are often not found.
In other topics of life and death, on May 18 we'll have a
conversation about end of life issues with our own Rob Atwood, who works as a
hospice social worker while not helping out with Sunday readings. On
Tuesday Christ Church hosted a day-long workshop for clergy and other
caregivers about "Caring for Each Other in Life and Death" (see the
tweets at #endlifecare) put on by the Massachusetts Council of Churches-it's a
conversation whose time has come.
Medical technology can do almost anything-life can be
extended longer than ever before, and that's a blessing. I don't
want to go back to a time before measles vaccines and chemotherapy. But our
dedication to technology has also obscured the way that death is also part of
life. Our bodies are gifts from God, wonderful gifts. In
caring for ourselves we give glory to God, in using our skills and
honoring our relationships and running and sleeping and loving. But we are also
invited into a certain humility about our bodies-they are a gift, but they are
also on loan.
As always, Anglican theology is pretty nuanced on the
question. In our Church's teaching about the end of life, we
differentiate between "passive" and "active" ways in which
death may be hastened. The passive withholding of treatment is an ethical
choice; if there is no prognosis for recovery, the question becomes whether the
patient's dying process is being prolonged, as opposed to whether their actual
life is being extended. When the ballot question on (depending on your
position) physician assisted suicide/death with dignity came across, there were
Episcopalians of good faith on both sides of the issue. I do think
we need to be cautious about our judgments about what life is "meaningful"-one
of the reasons I voted against the 2012 ballot initiative was that I worried
about legitimating the notion that some lives are not worth
living. From a disability rights perspective, that's
just not a precedent I want to be part of, even as I would be in favor of some
of the outcomes of the adoption of such a law.
And there are a lot of legal issues-I learned this week that
your next of kin may be the person the hospital calls first, but if there is a
conflict with other family members about your care, only an authorized health
care proxy has the right to make the final call. So please
join us on the 17th-we'll talk about some of the medical decisions
that are made at the end of life, about Massachusetts
law concerning decision making authorization, and also (and this part is kind
of fun) planning your own funeral. There's only one way to be sure that one
hymn that you hate doesn't get played... If you can't make it check
out the booklet we put together last year here
or make an appointment to see me!
Blessings,
Sara+
Monday, June 10, 2013
Preparing for Gentle Death
Dear People of Christ Church
As you may have
heard on Sunday, this week we'll gather at 7pm to hear from our own Rob
Atwood and Christine August on end of life care. Rob is a hospice social worker
and Christine is an ICU nurse-both come to us with a great wealth of knowledge
of how we die. It happens to everyone, and even God in Jesus Christ went
there with us, but it's still a topic we fear. The fact is, though,
talking with the people we love about what we want near the end of our own
lives, or what they want at the end of theirs, is one of the greatest gifts we
can give. But it's hard. We don't want to be ghoulish, or make anyone
uncomfortable, or we can't countenance the idea of not having those we love
with us every day. We'd just rather talk about it...another day.
In a Christian context,
though, we're given a new freedom, a different context to consider the death of
our bodies. We can stand neither "for" nor "against" death,
but beside, as a known part of our human existence that will happen to us all.
Francis of Assisi put it this way in the hymn we know as "All
Creatures of our God and King:"
And thou most kind and gentle
Death,
Waiting to hush our latest breath,
O praise Him! Alleluia!
Thou leadest home the child of
God,
And Christ our Lord the way hath
trod.
O praise Him! O praise Him!
Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!
Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!
Kind and gentle death, leading us
home to God. Wow.
Life is a tremendous gift, and we
are stewards-caretakers-of these bodies and souls that are given us. They are a
blessing. Our life is a blessing. Modern medicine and technology are a
blessing. There are many of you whose lives I treasure who have survived
illnesses that just twenty years ago would have been a death sentence.
As much as we are grateful for all the many treatments that are now
possible to prevent death, we also know that there's more to the story than
just our bodies' eventual end.
We have a responsibility to
preserve life, but we can also be realistic about what treatments are likely to
be effective and which are not. If nothing can separate us from God and
the love of those we love, then we don't have to approach death as the
enemy. Choices about care can be made from the standpoint of compassion
for the whole person, not just the scientific alleviation of a particular
symptom or illness. If someone near death is unable to swallow or loses
interest in food, for example, is it compassionate to give a feeding tube? It's
a hard question. It may prolong the life of their body, but that may come
at another cost.
In our Church's teaching about the
end of life, we differentiate between "passive" and
"active" ways in which death may be hastened. The passive withholding
of treatment is an ethical choice; if there is no prognosis for recovery, the
question becomes whether the patient's dying process is being prolonged, as
opposed to whether their actual life is being extended. At the same time,
when the physician assisted suicide referendum came around at election time, I
voted "no;" to take an action specifically with the desired outcome
being death is not, in my view, an ethical choice. As Episcopalians, also, we
respect each others' freedom of conscience. These issues are complicated, and
we don't condemn those who believe otherwise. There are times when the
lines are blurry and that's why it's so important that we talk to those we love
about the choices they want us to make. Fill out the legal paperwork for
who will be your health care proxy if you can't make decisions for
yourself. Put down, in writing if necessary, the kind of treatment
you do and do not want and tell that person.
As part of our conversation next
week, I'll also make available a booklet we put together several years ago
called "A Christian Prepares for Death," which leads you through many
of the choices to be made in preparing for the kind of burial you want. We
might think, "I won't exactly be present, so I'll let the people who
survive me make the choices." But let me tell you from the experience of
going through this with a lot of people-the most comforting thing for the
surviving person is to know what you would have wanted! This goes for
whether you want to be cremated or have "Go Tell it on the Mountain"
sung as much as for whether you would want to be removed from a ventilator.
Small decisions loom awfully large in a time of grief. Communication
about death is not morbid--it's one of the most loving things you can do.
I'll leave you with this piece of
Scripture:
For I am convinced that neither
death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to
come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation,
will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our
Lord. (Romans 8:38-39)
Thanks be to God!
Blessings,
Sara+
Sara+
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
From May 31: On grieving...a wordless space
Dear people of Christ Church,
This morning, I'm back at work after having spent the last week with my family in Sweden. I cried when I read the piece I wrote in this space last week; what I didn't know, writing that on Tuesday night, was that, contrary to my comment about her living "six days or six weeks," it turned out to be more like six hours. Meanwhile, I was stranded in Toronto after my flight was cancelled so I got the news of her death in an anonymous hotel room near the airport. It was, as they say, a "good death," with her daughter and sister each holding a hand, but given that I would have made it if my flight had not been cancelled, there was, along with my own grief, a level of very mundane fury at Air Canada for not having its planes in order.
The writer Elaine Scarry, I think, said somewhere that pain takes away our words. In some ways, grief does this, too, because there's such a wide net of loss when someone dies. When we grieve, we don't just grieve the person who has died, but the whole constellation of realities and associations that that person held for us. In our meeting with the pastor who would do the service for Barbro, we all talked about how she had always been "in charge," that she was the big sister, the mother, the one who could do anything. From a leaking washing machine hose to a piece of broken jewelry, she was a fixer. "So who takes that role now?" Pastor Olaf asked. As if anyone could!
It's easy to trust in God's providence for her. I can paint beautiful and sentimental pictures of the wholeness and grace that envelops her in death, the clarity of a sunset on the Angerman river in Northern Sweden where we always went on vacation. Trusting God's providence for *myself* is quite a bit more difficult, and I find myself back in the wordless space (or, when there are words, the ones that come to mind are not printable here!). So there is a certain silence at the center of the experience, but being home, the work of living marches on.
That was the other strange, but wonderful, thing about my trip; in addition to bursts of tears, there was also some very pleasant tourism, beautiful weather, and yummy Swedish food (yes, it actually IS a lot like the cafeteria at Ikea). My cousin and my mother and I did not only sit around crying: there was the startling blue of the Baltic Sea, the spinning of wind turbines (eat your heart out, Cape Wind), and the brilliant yellow of rapeseed fields. I can't imagine it, but I think the kingdom of God must be in color, too.
So thanks for reading--what a wonder to come home to such an inviting space for reflection and prayer.
Blessings,
Sara+
This morning, I'm back at work after having spent the last week with my family in Sweden. I cried when I read the piece I wrote in this space last week; what I didn't know, writing that on Tuesday night, was that, contrary to my comment about her living "six days or six weeks," it turned out to be more like six hours. Meanwhile, I was stranded in Toronto after my flight was cancelled so I got the news of her death in an anonymous hotel room near the airport. It was, as they say, a "good death," with her daughter and sister each holding a hand, but given that I would have made it if my flight had not been cancelled, there was, along with my own grief, a level of very mundane fury at Air Canada for not having its planes in order.
The writer Elaine Scarry, I think, said somewhere that pain takes away our words. In some ways, grief does this, too, because there's such a wide net of loss when someone dies. When we grieve, we don't just grieve the person who has died, but the whole constellation of realities and associations that that person held for us. In our meeting with the pastor who would do the service for Barbro, we all talked about how she had always been "in charge," that she was the big sister, the mother, the one who could do anything. From a leaking washing machine hose to a piece of broken jewelry, she was a fixer. "So who takes that role now?" Pastor Olaf asked. As if anyone could!
It's easy to trust in God's providence for her. I can paint beautiful and sentimental pictures of the wholeness and grace that envelops her in death, the clarity of a sunset on the Angerman river in Northern Sweden where we always went on vacation. Trusting God's providence for *myself* is quite a bit more difficult, and I find myself back in the wordless space (or, when there are words, the ones that come to mind are not printable here!). So there is a certain silence at the center of the experience, but being home, the work of living marches on.
That was the other strange, but wonderful, thing about my trip; in addition to bursts of tears, there was also some very pleasant tourism, beautiful weather, and yummy Swedish food (yes, it actually IS a lot like the cafeteria at Ikea). My cousin and my mother and I did not only sit around crying: there was the startling blue of the Baltic Sea, the spinning of wind turbines (eat your heart out, Cape Wind), and the brilliant yellow of rapeseed fields. I can't imagine it, but I think the kingdom of God must be in color, too.
So thanks for reading--what a wonder to come home to such an inviting space for reflection and prayer.
Blessings,
Sara+
From May 23: Most Kind and Gentle Death
Dear People of Christ Church,
This week, I'm writing early, getting ready to fly to Sweden to be with my aunt Barbro. She was diagnosed with lung cancer this spring and has taken a turn for the worse. I should only be gone for a week, but I do regret that I'll miss our festive joint Pentecost service with St Peter's, this Sunday at 11. Matt is preaching and Rev. Mary will celebrate, so it will still be a great celebration! Norm Faramelli has graciously agreed to take the 8:30 service so there will be Eucharist then as well. Please come!
Meanwhile, I've been trying to justify my time away to my children, who are not too pleased about it. Explaining things to them so often is another way of explaining things to myself; in the midst of creating their own worlds, they ask all the hard questions that help me to consider why I really do believe what I do. Most powerfully, they also keep me accountable, pushing me to re-evaluate the half-truths I'm sometimes willing to settle for. Still, talking about death with a five year old is something else altogether (my 2 ½ year old doesn't get it at all, which is fine!).
Isaiah is quite aware that his Saturday playground plans get put on hold for burials, but trying to explain the matrix of faith and sadness that comes together when one of "our own" is dying is another story. We haven't been to Sweden since 2008-when Isaiah was barely 1 ½--so he has no memory of our family there (my mother's whole side of the family, of whom there are not many more). I have been trying to explain to him how I want to go before my aunt dies, to see her before I can't see her anymore. At the same time, I am also explaining that she will be with God, and that everyone dies eventually, so even though I'm sad, it's not necessarily such a terrible thing because we trust in God's love. I really do believe all the alleluias we throw around at burials in the Episcopal Church.
Still, I'm trying to explain it to him with the background of my own grief; the reason I'm going tomorrow and not waiting until "later" (as I've been putting it off since she was diagnosed) is that her needs are such that she is not going home again, whether she lives for another six days or six weeks. This is the time, and I am incredibly blessed/fortunate/just plain lucky to be able to have a flexible job and a credit card that make it possible. There are not many Johannsons or Irwins, so it's not like I can catch the next family heartbreak at a more convenient time.
Meanwhile, there is that perplexity of "my sorrow" vs. "cosmic joy," not to mention the work my aunt herself is doing. Dying is a verb. Going to be with her is witnessing that. Witnessing, in both senses of the word-to see it, to witness, but also to give witness, to affirm it and show that it is important. Gene Burkart and I were talking about this the other day; in our culture death is somehow left to the experts to "fight." Death is often is seen as happening to us, as though our souls and bodies were not on the same team. I think, though, that death has a lot in common with giving birth-when else are we working so closely with God's work on earth? Both are like standing beside a volcano, both with complexity and grace and risk and wonder.
So thank you for your prayers-especially the wardens, Jonathan and Victoria, who fix everything when I'm away! I'll close with the last verse of the wonderful hymn from St Francis, "All Creatures of our God and King." which we sang a few weeks ago. You can listen to some English children with frilly collars singing it, though unfortunately not all the verses--Click here
And thou, most kind and gentle death,
waiting to hush our latest breath,
O praise him, Alleluia!
Thou leadest home the child of God,
and Christ our Lord the way hath trod
Blessings,
Sara+
This week, I'm writing early, getting ready to fly to Sweden to be with my aunt Barbro. She was diagnosed with lung cancer this spring and has taken a turn for the worse. I should only be gone for a week, but I do regret that I'll miss our festive joint Pentecost service with St Peter's, this Sunday at 11. Matt is preaching and Rev. Mary will celebrate, so it will still be a great celebration! Norm Faramelli has graciously agreed to take the 8:30 service so there will be Eucharist then as well. Please come!
Meanwhile, I've been trying to justify my time away to my children, who are not too pleased about it. Explaining things to them so often is another way of explaining things to myself; in the midst of creating their own worlds, they ask all the hard questions that help me to consider why I really do believe what I do. Most powerfully, they also keep me accountable, pushing me to re-evaluate the half-truths I'm sometimes willing to settle for. Still, talking about death with a five year old is something else altogether (my 2 ½ year old doesn't get it at all, which is fine!).
Isaiah is quite aware that his Saturday playground plans get put on hold for burials, but trying to explain the matrix of faith and sadness that comes together when one of "our own" is dying is another story. We haven't been to Sweden since 2008-when Isaiah was barely 1 ½--so he has no memory of our family there (my mother's whole side of the family, of whom there are not many more). I have been trying to explain to him how I want to go before my aunt dies, to see her before I can't see her anymore. At the same time, I am also explaining that she will be with God, and that everyone dies eventually, so even though I'm sad, it's not necessarily such a terrible thing because we trust in God's love. I really do believe all the alleluias we throw around at burials in the Episcopal Church.
Still, I'm trying to explain it to him with the background of my own grief; the reason I'm going tomorrow and not waiting until "later" (as I've been putting it off since she was diagnosed) is that her needs are such that she is not going home again, whether she lives for another six days or six weeks. This is the time, and I am incredibly blessed/fortunate/just plain lucky to be able to have a flexible job and a credit card that make it possible. There are not many Johannsons or Irwins, so it's not like I can catch the next family heartbreak at a more convenient time.
Meanwhile, there is that perplexity of "my sorrow" vs. "cosmic joy," not to mention the work my aunt herself is doing. Dying is a verb. Going to be with her is witnessing that. Witnessing, in both senses of the word-to see it, to witness, but also to give witness, to affirm it and show that it is important. Gene Burkart and I were talking about this the other day; in our culture death is somehow left to the experts to "fight." Death is often is seen as happening to us, as though our souls and bodies were not on the same team. I think, though, that death has a lot in common with giving birth-when else are we working so closely with God's work on earth? Both are like standing beside a volcano, both with complexity and grace and risk and wonder.
So thank you for your prayers-especially the wardens, Jonathan and Victoria, who fix everything when I'm away! I'll close with the last verse of the wonderful hymn from St Francis, "All Creatures of our God and King." which we sang a few weeks ago. You can listen to some English children with frilly collars singing it, though unfortunately not all the verses--Click here
And thou, most kind and gentle death,
waiting to hush our latest breath,
O praise him, Alleluia!
Thou leadest home the child of God,
and Christ our Lord the way hath trod
Blessings,
Sara+
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
This week I write with sad news of the death of John Johnson, who has been in hospice since last fall. I say it is sad news because I am sad. As our burial rite says, John himself is busy making his alleluias at the grave, secure in the arms of his creator. Still, I will miss him. John called me up last summer and invited me to come up and talk with him about his plans for burial, as he felt his time was near. I've visited him every week or every other week for almost all of the last year. I will miss those visits, puzzling together over the mysteries of life and death. He was ready to go, but I was not ready to say goodbye-I don't know if the living are ever ready. John's sons live scattered across the country, so his burial will be later in the summer when everyone is able to get here.
Friday, May 9, 2008
God's Transforming Grace (From May 1)
This morning, we celebrated a funeral service for Dottie Wessell. Dottie donated the statue of St Francis here at Christ Church in memory of her son, who died when he was 30 after being infected with rabies when working in Africa. Dottie hadn’t been in regular attendance here for some time, but I met her 2 years ago when I was visiting someone at the former Waltham hospital, where she’d volunteered for 35 years. We exchanged greetings that day, but I only got a chance to start getting to know her in the last few months, as she was dying.
I always find funerals to be so moving (whether I knew the person or not) because there is a sameness in the way we all remember each other. Our grief almost becomes a sacrament of our love for the person we’ve lost—an outward sign of an invisible grace. This morning at her funeral, we heard several eulogies, people choking back tears remembering her. They spoke of her love for her children, and laughed as they remembered how she’d been stubborn and strong-willed, and not a little set in her ways.
Dottie will miss their wedding, but it is sure that she lives on in them, in that unconditional love she showed. I do believe that God sent her Dan to be a comfort in her lonely last days, but it wasn’t just comfort—it was transformation. It was the Holy Spirit, whirling in through each of their lives, bringing them life and joy. The Holy Spirit never leaves us the way we were—we are always transformed nearer and nearer into the image of God in which we were all created.
The preacher at the funeral this morning was the Rev. Marya DeCarlen, Dan and Mario’s priest from their church in Groveland. She talked about how at a time like this, our grief is a sacrament of our love for the person who has died—it is an outward sign of the invisible, inward grace of that relationship. We mourn because we love. Our sadness can be as much a gift as the ways we enjoyed each other in life. The Eucharist wasn’t the only way we knew God this morning. In hearing the story of Dan and Dottie’s unlikely friendship, we were all invited into the live-giving grace of God’s transforming love. Pray that we may each be as open to that grace as she was.
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