A week ago on Monday afternoon I was here for the memorial service of one of my parish members. That's probably not an unusual thing for a pastor to say. I've held a lot of funerals through the years. But, until recently, i have not had many in this little congregation.
I remember meeting with the family the Thursday before. She wanted to have two hours visitation starting at 12:00. The service would be at 2:00 p.m. They chose two hymns; I urged them to include one more. They had two friends as eulogists as well. The man's wife and children spoke so warmly of their husband and father, memories of family events and things that he had done in the communities where they lived, including (I remember) that he liked to read to the children at Head Start. And I remember that she was concerned that our church would be large enough. They had heard from many people who planned to attend. We had extra chairs ready for the narthex and the balcony, just in case we would need them.
As it turned out, we did need them. This little church of ours was packed that Monday afternoon. I have never really seen anything like it before. I have been to a few other large funerals, but it felt like people just kept coming, squeezing into every nook and cranny, singing "Beautiful Savior" at the top of our lungs. I did not see this, but i was told that there was a line of cars stretching down the highway waiting to get into our small parking lot.
It is not very often that you get a glimpse of the impact that one life can have. One ordinary life. This man, though beloved, was not in any way famous. He did not have an especially large family. He was active in his church and he was active in his community. There was something humbling about trying to squeeze all of those people into our little building that day. It felt like God was shouting at us to have faith -- that though we are small, God is mighty. Just look around. Look at all of the people. Look at how God works in the world.
That is how I felt that day.
Inevitably, though, I thought back. It was early December, the beginning of Advent. I was preparing for a funeral that day too. We had gotten word that an elderly member of our congregation had died on Thanksgiving Day. Her daughter called and asked if we could have a small memorial service in our church. Of course we could. This woman had been a faithful member of our congregation for many years. I remembered where she always sat, every single week. I remember that she wore a sweater, even when it was hot. I remember how her son started bringing her to church, when she became ill. During the last several months, people asked after her when she was not able to come to church.
On that day in early December, there were not many people in the church. A few family members, a few faithful members of my congregation, who had looked out for her. My heart warmed to see them. One woman who came expressed dismay at the small group of people gathered. She was as shocked to see this small group of worshipers as we were shocked to see the great crowds last week.
I don't remember much about the funeral, except that her granddaughter gave a lovely solo. I remembered a particular sermon I had given, when I asked members of the congregation to share their favorite Bible verses, and this quiet unassuming woman had raised her voice and quoted Isaiah 59:1, "The arm of the Lord is not too short to save, nor is his ear too deaf to hear." Her family shared stories of her love and faith and strength.
And it was no less true that day in December -- though we are small, God is mighty. Look around.
This is how God works in the world.
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Monday, February 17, 2020
Friday, March 6, 2015
To Look At The Heart
Today, I sat with a woman whose husband is dying. We sat by his bed, held his hand, prayed a little, told a few stories.
They have been married over 70 years. They both walk with canes. They would hold each other up, watch out for one another.
"My friends wondered what I saw in him," she said. "Because of the age difference. And because he walked with a limp. He had polio when he was a child. But I didn't see the limp, not until they they mentioned it. I looked at his heart. I didn't see the limp. I saw his heart, and it was strong and good.
"My friends -- a lot of them got divorced." She didn't exactly say it with a tone of triumph, but as a simple statement -- it pays to look at the heart, and not at outward things.
"They said it wouldn't last," she said again, "because of the age difference."
"What age difference is there?' I asked her. I never knew.
"Seven years," she said. "I'm 90 and he is 97. Back in those days you only married someone your own age. So they said it wouldn't last. That, and the limp. They wondered what I saw in him."
They have been taking care of each other for over 70 years, each of them keeping an eye on the other, each of them holding the other one up, each of them looking at the heart.
We held hands, we prayed, we told stories. I made the sign of the cross on his forehead, and said, "You are sealed with the Holy Spirit, and marked with the cross of Christ forever."
For 70 years, when they held each other up, it was Jesus who was holding on, through their faithfulness. For 70 years, when they kept an eye on each other, it was Jesus watching out for them, through their faithfulness.
If you look at the heart, that's what you see.
They have been married over 70 years. They both walk with canes. They would hold each other up, watch out for one another.
"My friends wondered what I saw in him," she said. "Because of the age difference. And because he walked with a limp. He had polio when he was a child. But I didn't see the limp, not until they they mentioned it. I looked at his heart. I didn't see the limp. I saw his heart, and it was strong and good.
"My friends -- a lot of them got divorced." She didn't exactly say it with a tone of triumph, but as a simple statement -- it pays to look at the heart, and not at outward things.
"They said it wouldn't last," she said again, "because of the age difference."
"What age difference is there?' I asked her. I never knew.
"Seven years," she said. "I'm 90 and he is 97. Back in those days you only married someone your own age. So they said it wouldn't last. That, and the limp. They wondered what I saw in him."
They have been taking care of each other for over 70 years, each of them keeping an eye on the other, each of them holding the other one up, each of them looking at the heart.
We held hands, we prayed, we told stories. I made the sign of the cross on his forehead, and said, "You are sealed with the Holy Spirit, and marked with the cross of Christ forever."
For 70 years, when they held each other up, it was Jesus who was holding on, through their faithfulness. For 70 years, when they kept an eye on each other, it was Jesus watching out for them, through their faithfulness.
If you look at the heart, that's what you see.
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
What I Did Today
I voted. I wrote a funeral sermon.
All right, I did a few more things. I took my computer to the computer doctor, and luckily, they were able to fix it quickly. I wrote a funeral bulletin, and an annual report which had something to do with the church as a community, and I met with another family about a funeral, which will take place on Friday.
But in my mind, it comes down to this: I voted. I wrote a funeral sermon.
I don't know much (or anything) about the politics of the person at whose funeral I will preach tomorrow. I know that she liked Ronald Reagan, because he said, "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!" She was a German immigrant, had lived through World War Ii, and was sponsored to come to the United States by a Lutheran Church in Minneapolis.
What I know is that she taught her children to pray. What I know is that she liked to sing, to swim, to bike, to garden. What is know is that she is inscribed on the palms of God's hands.
While I was writing this evening, I had one ear on the election results. We were trying to find out about a friend who was a candidate for state office in another state. We heard that there was a barrage of negative ads in the final days of the campaign, accusing our friend of being self-serving. (He had served long ago in another state legislature.) We know our friend to be a person of integrity, the opposite of self-serving. You might not agree with his politics, but he is NOT self-serving. That is politics, I suppose.
Earlier today, I voted. I voted because I do think it is important. I want to create more equitable communities, healthier communities. And, I'll confess, as much as I want my candidates to win, I am just as jazzed by the fact that my state consistently has the highest voter turnout in the nation. I'm proud to see high school students working as election judges. Still, I vote because I have hope: hope that my community can become a better place, where justice and kindness will flourish. When my candidate loses, my hopes are wounded.
Today, I voted. But tonight I wrote a funeral sermon, and another kind of hope. I wrote about the hope for the eternal city, where love has the last word, where death is no more. I wrote about the hope for the crystal river, where the saints will gather, where we will meet again, singing.
All right, I did a few more things. I took my computer to the computer doctor, and luckily, they were able to fix it quickly. I wrote a funeral bulletin, and an annual report which had something to do with the church as a community, and I met with another family about a funeral, which will take place on Friday.
But in my mind, it comes down to this: I voted. I wrote a funeral sermon.
I don't know much (or anything) about the politics of the person at whose funeral I will preach tomorrow. I know that she liked Ronald Reagan, because he said, "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!" She was a German immigrant, had lived through World War Ii, and was sponsored to come to the United States by a Lutheran Church in Minneapolis.
What I know is that she taught her children to pray. What I know is that she liked to sing, to swim, to bike, to garden. What is know is that she is inscribed on the palms of God's hands.
While I was writing this evening, I had one ear on the election results. We were trying to find out about a friend who was a candidate for state office in another state. We heard that there was a barrage of negative ads in the final days of the campaign, accusing our friend of being self-serving. (He had served long ago in another state legislature.) We know our friend to be a person of integrity, the opposite of self-serving. You might not agree with his politics, but he is NOT self-serving. That is politics, I suppose.
Earlier today, I voted. I voted because I do think it is important. I want to create more equitable communities, healthier communities. And, I'll confess, as much as I want my candidates to win, I am just as jazzed by the fact that my state consistently has the highest voter turnout in the nation. I'm proud to see high school students working as election judges. Still, I vote because I have hope: hope that my community can become a better place, where justice and kindness will flourish. When my candidate loses, my hopes are wounded.
Today, I voted. But tonight I wrote a funeral sermon, and another kind of hope. I wrote about the hope for the eternal city, where love has the last word, where death is no more. I wrote about the hope for the crystal river, where the saints will gather, where we will meet again, singing.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
The Shelter of One Another
Not long ago a young woman from my congregation died, after a very short battle with cancer. She was just 24 years old, had a major in sports biology, and was just about to begin a graduate degree in physical therapy.
We prayed without ceasing, it seemed literally, at times, and we all thought that this was just the sort of case that miracles were made for. How could she die? She had just gone to Europe with a friend, earlier that summer. She was healthy. She was beautiful. She was kind and generous.
The grieving punched us all in the gut; there was no breath left in us. Her family, reeling from suddenness and shock, didn't have the strength to plan a whole funeral.
But there was a Gathering.
They asked me to say a prayer, and to say a few words
I sat up the evening before and typed and thought and prayed, and thought that all of my words sounded hollow and useless. I wrote a few words about love, and about God, and about promises in the midst of so much loss. I thought about the words from 1st John, "Beloved, let us love one another, for love is of God.... and everyone who loves is born of God and knows God."
The Gathering was Sunday afternoon. It had rained earlier in the afternoon. The family decorated our fellowship hall with pictures and autumn scenes. There was plenty of food.
The people came. The people came and they just kept coming. There was plenty of food but most people didn't come to eat -- at least it didn't seem that way. They just came. They came to hug each other and to cry and to laugh together.
So I said a few words, brown leaves of words tossed about in the air. I felt that it wasn't enough. I said something about the young woman who died, and her family. I said something about love, and that it is what God has put us here to do. And I said something about God, and God's promises of life. And think I said something about the importance of showing up.
Later I wished I had said something about the fragility of life, how it catches us all off guard, how we think we can solve everything, and that we will live forever. Especially in times like these, when it seems that medicine can solve more and more. And when we discover again that life is fragile and short, and that we can't do everything, what do we have?
We have these promises from God, promises that what we see is not all there is, promises that life will come from death, promises of resurrection.
And we have one another.
It doesn't seem like enough sometimes. And it doesn't seem that important, most of the time, as we live in our individual lives, cluttered with obligations. But now and again, the unthinkable happens, and our hearts break, and we realize that all we really have in this world is one another, to bear us up, to shelter us, when the storms break over us. That's why we gather, I think. It is not so much protection, but it is what we have.
One another.
And the promises of the God who who weeps, who breaks, who mends our hearts.
We prayed without ceasing, it seemed literally, at times, and we all thought that this was just the sort of case that miracles were made for. How could she die? She had just gone to Europe with a friend, earlier that summer. She was healthy. She was beautiful. She was kind and generous.
The grieving punched us all in the gut; there was no breath left in us. Her family, reeling from suddenness and shock, didn't have the strength to plan a whole funeral.
But there was a Gathering.
They asked me to say a prayer, and to say a few words
I sat up the evening before and typed and thought and prayed, and thought that all of my words sounded hollow and useless. I wrote a few words about love, and about God, and about promises in the midst of so much loss. I thought about the words from 1st John, "Beloved, let us love one another, for love is of God.... and everyone who loves is born of God and knows God."
The Gathering was Sunday afternoon. It had rained earlier in the afternoon. The family decorated our fellowship hall with pictures and autumn scenes. There was plenty of food.
The people came. The people came and they just kept coming. There was plenty of food but most people didn't come to eat -- at least it didn't seem that way. They just came. They came to hug each other and to cry and to laugh together.
So I said a few words, brown leaves of words tossed about in the air. I felt that it wasn't enough. I said something about the young woman who died, and her family. I said something about love, and that it is what God has put us here to do. And I said something about God, and God's promises of life. And think I said something about the importance of showing up.
Later I wished I had said something about the fragility of life, how it catches us all off guard, how we think we can solve everything, and that we will live forever. Especially in times like these, when it seems that medicine can solve more and more. And when we discover again that life is fragile and short, and that we can't do everything, what do we have?
We have these promises from God, promises that what we see is not all there is, promises that life will come from death, promises of resurrection.
And we have one another.
It doesn't seem like enough sometimes. And it doesn't seem that important, most of the time, as we live in our individual lives, cluttered with obligations. But now and again, the unthinkable happens, and our hearts break, and we realize that all we really have in this world is one another, to bear us up, to shelter us, when the storms break over us. That's why we gather, I think. It is not so much protection, but it is what we have.
One another.
And the promises of the God who who weeps, who breaks, who mends our hearts.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Beautiful and Terrible
A week ago on Sunday afternoon, as the shadows lengthened and the sun went down, my husband and I drove over to a spot downtown along the Mississippi River. We got out and walked over the Stone Arch Bridge, stopping to watch a bridal party taking pictures, children peering over the railing, young people riding bikes. When we got to the other side of the bridge, there was a group of children standing with a man and a woman who were dressed like clowns. They were teaching the children how to blow gi-normous bubbles.
We stood and watched, delighted, for a few moments. But before we turned to walk back across the bridge, I walked down some wooden steps to get a better view of the river and the bridge above. It was not quite sunset, and the view was beautiful.
I thought back to earlier that afternoon. After worship that morning I had stopped in at the Intensive Care Unit of one of our local hospitals. I sat for a little while with a family as they waited for good news about their daughter and sister. They were not getting very much good news, and they grasped every sliver they could find, and held on tight. We prayed our silent prayers and hoped against hope. It was a grave place, full of love and pain.
I thought back a little further to the news I had gotten on Friday, news that a good friend of mine from seminary days had died. She was just 47, with two young children and a heart-broken husband. I grieved the loss, and also the fact that I had not kept in contact with her over the years since seminary, even though we had been faithful friends through those years of study. When I saw her picture on caring bridge, I saw first the familiar, beautiful smile that lit up every room she entered. How could she be dead? I still couldn't believe it.
"Here is the world," Frederick Buechner once said. "Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid."
As I walked over the bridge, as I watched the children playing, as I felt the setting sun on the river, it was easy to believe that God was in this place.
But God is in the Intensive Care Unit, too, though often impossible to see. I don't say it because I can feel the warmth on the back of my neck, or because I got the news I wanted to hear. I just hold on to it. God is in the Intensive Care Unit, holding on to all of us.
One of the things they said of my friend from seminary, the one with the beautiful smile, the one who died too young, was that she was never afraid.
Beautiful and terrible. Don't be afraid.
We stood and watched, delighted, for a few moments. But before we turned to walk back across the bridge, I walked down some wooden steps to get a better view of the river and the bridge above. It was not quite sunset, and the view was beautiful.
I thought back to earlier that afternoon. After worship that morning I had stopped in at the Intensive Care Unit of one of our local hospitals. I sat for a little while with a family as they waited for good news about their daughter and sister. They were not getting very much good news, and they grasped every sliver they could find, and held on tight. We prayed our silent prayers and hoped against hope. It was a grave place, full of love and pain.
I thought back a little further to the news I had gotten on Friday, news that a good friend of mine from seminary days had died. She was just 47, with two young children and a heart-broken husband. I grieved the loss, and also the fact that I had not kept in contact with her over the years since seminary, even though we had been faithful friends through those years of study. When I saw her picture on caring bridge, I saw first the familiar, beautiful smile that lit up every room she entered. How could she be dead? I still couldn't believe it."Here is the world," Frederick Buechner once said. "Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid."
As I walked over the bridge, as I watched the children playing, as I felt the setting sun on the river, it was easy to believe that God was in this place.
But God is in the Intensive Care Unit, too, though often impossible to see. I don't say it because I can feel the warmth on the back of my neck, or because I got the news I wanted to hear. I just hold on to it. God is in the Intensive Care Unit, holding on to all of us.
One of the things they said of my friend from seminary, the one with the beautiful smile, the one who died too young, was that she was never afraid.
Beautiful and terrible. Don't be afraid.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Faith Formation
Not long ago I went to visit a woman who had just entered hospice care. I've known her family for several years. I used to visit her with her husband and give them communion pretty regularly.
I wasn't sure what to expect that day I visited. How would she feel? Would she even be awake? I found that she was up in a wheelchair, in one of those brightly-colored jogging suits, and even in a sort-of feisty mood.
She turned to me at one point, and said, in a sort of conspiratorial tone, "Just between you and me, I think I'm going to stop eating." A little later she said, "I want you to do my funeral." I was a little taken aback, but replied, "Well, don't be in too much of a hurry."
"What, are you going on vacation?" she asked.
She seemed so at ease with her dying. I caught myself hoping that I could be like that someday.
Again, I visited her last Friday. Her husband and son were there, and we read scripture and shared communion. The appointed lesson for the day was Psalm 148. It was a hymn of praise. "Praise him, sun and moon! Praise him, all you shining stars!" Perhaps it seemed like an odd choice to read to a woman who was dying. But when I asked her what she would praise God for, she was quick to answer, "I praise God for my family. I praise God for my children. It's been a good life. It's been a good life."
In my congregation, we are considering "faith formation" these days. How can faith be formed in us all through our lives, from the time we are held at the font, until the day we are carried to the many mansions God has prepared for us? What is the purpose of "faith formation" anyway?
And when I think about it, I hope our faith is formed for many purposes: to help us find our voice, to speak and act with justice and mercy, to help us to see the beauty in the world and in others, to grow in grace and courage and compassion.
But just for today, when I consider the goal of 'faith formation,' here's what it looks like: to be at ease with dying. To be grateful. To be able to say to those around me, "It's been a good life."
I wasn't sure what to expect that day I visited. How would she feel? Would she even be awake? I found that she was up in a wheelchair, in one of those brightly-colored jogging suits, and even in a sort-of feisty mood.
She turned to me at one point, and said, in a sort of conspiratorial tone, "Just between you and me, I think I'm going to stop eating." A little later she said, "I want you to do my funeral." I was a little taken aback, but replied, "Well, don't be in too much of a hurry."
"What, are you going on vacation?" she asked.
She seemed so at ease with her dying. I caught myself hoping that I could be like that someday.
Again, I visited her last Friday. Her husband and son were there, and we read scripture and shared communion. The appointed lesson for the day was Psalm 148. It was a hymn of praise. "Praise him, sun and moon! Praise him, all you shining stars!" Perhaps it seemed like an odd choice to read to a woman who was dying. But when I asked her what she would praise God for, she was quick to answer, "I praise God for my family. I praise God for my children. It's been a good life. It's been a good life."
In my congregation, we are considering "faith formation" these days. How can faith be formed in us all through our lives, from the time we are held at the font, until the day we are carried to the many mansions God has prepared for us? What is the purpose of "faith formation" anyway?
And when I think about it, I hope our faith is formed for many purposes: to help us find our voice, to speak and act with justice and mercy, to help us to see the beauty in the world and in others, to grow in grace and courage and compassion.
But just for today, when I consider the goal of 'faith formation,' here's what it looks like: to be at ease with dying. To be grateful. To be able to say to those around me, "It's been a good life."
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
The Message of Lent: Don't Give Up. Give Up.
Today was Ash Wednesday. We had bookend services, one at 8:00 a.m. in the chapel, the other at 7:00 p.m. tonight. The services were almost entirely the same: readings, sermon, imposition of ashes, confession, communion. Just the essentials.
One of the peculiar components of the Ash Wednesday service is something called "Invitation to Lent". I think it went by a different name in earlier incarnations of the liturgy. But, essentially, it's an exhortation to us to practice the disciplines of prayer, fasting and giving, self-examination and service during these forty days. It's an invitation to take up the struggle against sin, to gather all the weapons we can muster to fight temptation in our lives.
Don't give up.
So you said you would give up chocolate for Lent, and you're tempted all the time by the little pieces on your co-workers desk. So you get up every day and go to a job that you know isn't all that God intended you to do in life, and you're tempted to quit, even though you don't have another job lined up. So you are working to reduce gun violence in your community, but every time you think you have a chance, you have another setback, there is another school shooting. You wonder some days if your children are going to be all right when they grow up.
Don't give up. Don't give up doing good, even though it's hard, even impossible, and you fail a lot, and that's painful.
That's the message of Lent.
Except when I draw the crosses on people's foreheads, imperfectly, and say to them, "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." Remember that you are dust, you are mortal, you are finite, you are going to die someday, and you will leave some things undone. You will leave many things undone. You will have to let go of this life, let go of your children, let go of your accomplishments, let go of your hopes. Remember that you are dust, and to dust you will return.
Give up. Let go of something you hold too tightly: a dream, a person, a possession. Give up trying to impress people, wearing uncomfortable shoes, worrying about tomorrow. Give things away, like love, a word, your life. Serve, not expecting anything in return. Love without expecting a reward. Give up trying to save yourself. Be righteous but know that God doesn't love you because you are righteous.
Give up.
But, don't give up.
The message of Lent.
One of the peculiar components of the Ash Wednesday service is something called "Invitation to Lent". I think it went by a different name in earlier incarnations of the liturgy. But, essentially, it's an exhortation to us to practice the disciplines of prayer, fasting and giving, self-examination and service during these forty days. It's an invitation to take up the struggle against sin, to gather all the weapons we can muster to fight temptation in our lives.
Don't give up.
So you said you would give up chocolate for Lent, and you're tempted all the time by the little pieces on your co-workers desk. So you get up every day and go to a job that you know isn't all that God intended you to do in life, and you're tempted to quit, even though you don't have another job lined up. So you are working to reduce gun violence in your community, but every time you think you have a chance, you have another setback, there is another school shooting. You wonder some days if your children are going to be all right when they grow up.
Don't give up. Don't give up doing good, even though it's hard, even impossible, and you fail a lot, and that's painful.
That's the message of Lent.
Except when I draw the crosses on people's foreheads, imperfectly, and say to them, "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." Remember that you are dust, you are mortal, you are finite, you are going to die someday, and you will leave some things undone. You will leave many things undone. You will have to let go of this life, let go of your children, let go of your accomplishments, let go of your hopes. Remember that you are dust, and to dust you will return.
Give up. Let go of something you hold too tightly: a dream, a person, a possession. Give up trying to impress people, wearing uncomfortable shoes, worrying about tomorrow. Give things away, like love, a word, your life. Serve, not expecting anything in return. Love without expecting a reward. Give up trying to save yourself. Be righteous but know that God doesn't love you because you are righteous.
Give up.
But, don't give up.
The message of Lent.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Soon and Very Soon
We sang the old gospel song, "Soon and Very Soon/We are Going to See the King" on Sunday. And I couldn't help it, while we were singing I could see them sitting near the front of the church. They have both been gone for a few years now, but they always sat in about the same place near the front of the church, pulpit side.
Whenever we sang this particular song, I always saw them sitting and holding one another, and tears would be streaming down their faces.
This song, I learned, had been sung at their daughter's funeral. Their daughter, their only child, had died of ALS, too young. They had two beloved grandchildren, and now three great-grandchildren, but whenever they heard this song, it reminded them of their daughter, and they cried.
So when we sang the song on Sunday, I couldn't help but see them still, even, sitting and crying, even though they are both gone now. They cried even though the song said "No more cryin' there...." even though the song said, "no more dying there".. And I suppose they cried from a combination of grieving and hope. They cried because in this world children should not die before their parents, and no one should go hungry, and young men should not have to go to war, and old people should not be left alone, with no one to care for them. And they cried for the vision that God promises us: a world where there will be no more crying and no more pain and no more death, a world where there will be enough water and enough light and enough love and enough life, where the leaves of the trees will be for the healing of the nations. They cried because they remembered the past and they yearned for the future.
Soon and Very Soon
We are Going to see the King.
What is it about singing? As soon as I hear the song, my mind conjures up the memories; I see them so clearly. It's as if that couple is still with us, singing and crying and worshiping. Singing does that; it conjures something up, and helps us go on living and working and yearning for the future God promises, but that we can't quite grasp.
Sometimes, all we can do is wait.
And sing about it.
And that is enough.
Whenever we sang this particular song, I always saw them sitting and holding one another, and tears would be streaming down their faces.
This song, I learned, had been sung at their daughter's funeral. Their daughter, their only child, had died of ALS, too young. They had two beloved grandchildren, and now three great-grandchildren, but whenever they heard this song, it reminded them of their daughter, and they cried.
So when we sang the song on Sunday, I couldn't help but see them still, even, sitting and crying, even though they are both gone now. They cried even though the song said "No more cryin' there...." even though the song said, "no more dying there".. And I suppose they cried from a combination of grieving and hope. They cried because in this world children should not die before their parents, and no one should go hungry, and young men should not have to go to war, and old people should not be left alone, with no one to care for them. And they cried for the vision that God promises us: a world where there will be no more crying and no more pain and no more death, a world where there will be enough water and enough light and enough love and enough life, where the leaves of the trees will be for the healing of the nations. They cried because they remembered the past and they yearned for the future.
Soon and Very Soon
We are Going to see the King.
What is it about singing? As soon as I hear the song, my mind conjures up the memories; I see them so clearly. It's as if that couple is still with us, singing and crying and worshiping. Singing does that; it conjures something up, and helps us go on living and working and yearning for the future God promises, but that we can't quite grasp.
Sometimes, all we can do is wait.
And sing about it.
And that is enough.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
My Last Funeral
During the past few days I've been thinking about the last funeral where I was the officiant, on a Saturday at about the middle of June.
A. was a gracious, lively, cultured woman who had struggled with cancer for the last several years. I visited her in her home and then at the nursing home where she spent the last couple of years of her life. When she was feeling well, she was a lively conversationalist, well-read, with thoughtful opinions on many of the events of the day. (Sometimes when I arrived, she was watching CNN.)
About a year ago, she decided to quit the treatments she was having for her cancer. They were taking too much out of her, so she and her son talked about it and decided she would not have that kind of suffering any more.
I remember going to visit her then, broaching the subject of what it meant for her to stop taking the treatments. I wanted to talk about the fact that she was going to die, to ask her if she was ready.
I have talked to people in the past who were eager to tell me that they were at peace. (I recently stopped in to see a woman whose first words to me were, "I'm ready.") I've talked to people who want to ask me what I think heaven, or eternal life, is like. Sometimes the conversation is easy.
Other times it is more difficult. Some people are shy, or private. It's more difficult for them to talk about things. But still, my calling is to tell them the truth, in the gentlest way possible. My calling is to help people grasp the life that God wants to give them.
It has occurred to me recently that this is not just true of people who are dying.
My calling is to love people and to tell them the truth. Sometimes this is the easiest and most joyous of tasks, and other times it is difficult. Often it is both at the same time. Sometimes, by the grace of God, I do it well. Other times, I know I have stumbled, and trust the Holy Spirit to use me anyway.
I trust the Holy Spirit to use me anyway.
A. was a gracious, lively, cultured woman who had struggled with cancer for the last several years. I visited her in her home and then at the nursing home where she spent the last couple of years of her life. When she was feeling well, she was a lively conversationalist, well-read, with thoughtful opinions on many of the events of the day. (Sometimes when I arrived, she was watching CNN.)
About a year ago, she decided to quit the treatments she was having for her cancer. They were taking too much out of her, so she and her son talked about it and decided she would not have that kind of suffering any more.
I remember going to visit her then, broaching the subject of what it meant for her to stop taking the treatments. I wanted to talk about the fact that she was going to die, to ask her if she was ready.
I have talked to people in the past who were eager to tell me that they were at peace. (I recently stopped in to see a woman whose first words to me were, "I'm ready.") I've talked to people who want to ask me what I think heaven, or eternal life, is like. Sometimes the conversation is easy.
Other times it is more difficult. Some people are shy, or private. It's more difficult for them to talk about things. But still, my calling is to tell them the truth, in the gentlest way possible. My calling is to help people grasp the life that God wants to give them.
It has occurred to me recently that this is not just true of people who are dying.
My calling is to love people and to tell them the truth. Sometimes this is the easiest and most joyous of tasks, and other times it is difficult. Often it is both at the same time. Sometimes, by the grace of God, I do it well. Other times, I know I have stumbled, and trust the Holy Spirit to use me anyway.
I trust the Holy Spirit to use me anyway.
Friday, June 4, 2010
From "Commendation of the Dying"
N, our sister in the faith, we entrust you to God who created you. May you return to the one who formed us out of the dust of the earth. Surrounded by the angels and triumphant saints, may Christ come to meet you as you go forth from this life.
Christ, the Lord of glory, who was crucified for you, bring you freedom and peac.e
Christ, the High Priest, who has forgiven all your sins, keep you among his people.
Christ, the Son of God, who died for you, show you the glories of his eternal kingdom.
Christ, the Good Shepherd, enfold you with his tender care. May you see your redeemer face to face and enjoy the sight of God forever.
AMEN
Christ, the Lord of glory, who was crucified for you, bring you freedom and peac.e
Christ, the High Priest, who has forgiven all your sins, keep you among his people.
Christ, the Son of God, who died for you, show you the glories of his eternal kingdom.
Christ, the Good Shepherd, enfold you with his tender care. May you see your redeemer face to face and enjoy the sight of God forever.
AMEN
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Early Sunday Morning: A Thought
When I was in 5th grade, my grandpa Folke, my dad's father, died. He died of skin cancer at 79 years old. I remember my grandmother sneaking me up to the hospital room once, because they did not allow children then. It's hard to explain, exactly: she hid me under her coat. I'm pretty sure that some people did see me.
But this is not about that.
When my grandpa Folke died, and even later when my grandma Judy died, I didn't really think about, as sad as I was, how much sadder my father must be, because these were his parents who had died.
When my neice was about three, I told her that my her dad was my brother, and that my uncle was grandma's brother, and that grandma was her dad's mother, and she threw her hands up in the air and said, "You mean everybody has a family?"
It seems like it takes our whole lives to figure that out.
But this is not about that.
When my grandpa Folke died, and even later when my grandma Judy died, I didn't really think about, as sad as I was, how much sadder my father must be, because these were his parents who had died.
When my neice was about three, I told her that my her dad was my brother, and that my uncle was grandma's brother, and that grandma was her dad's mother, and she threw her hands up in the air and said, "You mean everybody has a family?"
It seems like it takes our whole lives to figure that out.
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