Tag Archives: grief

Funeral Play List for an Older Saint

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On the last day of the year, I played for a funeral for a dear woman whose Christmas present was waking up in heaven. She and her husband left a legacy of faith, family and service.

Though there were tears and hugs and sniffles, it was predominantly a joyful time admiring the imprint of her love on those she knew. The grief of the family and friends was clean grief, unsplattered by regrets, remorse, resentment or reproach. It’s fun to go to funerals and discover stuff you never knew. I didn’t know she was such a fisherwoman, so competitive in games and sports, and rode a zip-line not that long ago!

In my experience, In the Garden is the favorite hymn of her generation. My friend sang this solo beautifully. Can one of my readers explain the third verse? (I discovered the hymn is an Easter hymn written in from the perspective of Mary Magdalene. Still, it doesn’t make sense to me.)  Another favorite is How Great Thou Art, which the congregation sang along with What a Friend We Have in Jesus.

I retrieved the hymnal I grew up with, Choice Hymns of the Faith, and made a play list for the prelude and postlude.

When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder

Trust and Obey

Sweet By and By

Softly and Tenderly

Abide with Me

All the Way My Savior Leads Me

Beneath the Cross of Jesus

Great Is Thy Faithfulness

Come Thou Fount

He Leadeth Me

I Need Thee Every Hour

I Will Sing of My Redeemer

Praise Him! Praise Him!

Standing on the Promises

Amazing Grace

Glory to His Name

Are You Washed in the Blood?

Blessed Be the Name

Jesus, I Am Resting

Lord Jesus, I Love Thee

Make Me a Blessing

Savior, Like a Shepherd Lead Me

My Faith Has Found a Resting Place

There Is a Name I Love to Hear

Immaneul’s Land

Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus

Leaning on the Everlasting Arms

It Is Well with My Soul

Sweeter as the Years Go By

 

My favorite re-discovery is a hymn called God In Heaven Hath a Treasure. Here is the “long-play” version.

God in heaven hath a treasure,
Riches none may count or tell;
Hath a deep eternal pleasure,
Christ, the Son, He loveth well.
God hath here on earth a treasure,
None but He its price may know—
Deep, unfathomable pleasure,
Christ revealed in saints below.

Christ, the Light that fills the heavens,
Shining forth on earth beneath,
Through His Spirit freely given,
Light of life ’midst shades of death.
Down from heav’n’s unclouded glory
God Himself the treasure brought,
Closing thus His love’s sweet story
With His sweetest, deepest thought.

God in tongues of fire descending,
Chosen vessels thus to fill
With the treasure never ending,
Ever spent—unfailing still.
Still unwasted, undiminished,
Though the days of dearth wear on,
Store eternally unfinished,
Fresh, as if but now begun.

Earthen vessels, marred, unsightly,
But the treasure as of old,
Fresh from glory, gleaming brightly,
Heav’n’s undimmed, unchanging gold.
God’s own hand the vessel filling
From the glory far above,
Longing hearts forever stilling
With those riches of His love.

Thus, through earthen vessels only,
Shining forth in ceaseless grace,
Reaching weary hearts and lonely,
Beams the light in Jesus’ face.
Vessels worthless, broken, bearing
Through the hungry ages on,
Riches giv’n with hand unsparing,
God’s great gift, His precious Son.

Thus though worn, and tried, and tempted,
Glorious calling, saint, is thine;
Let the Lord but find thee emptied,
Living branch in Christ the Vine!
Vessels of the world’s despising,
Vessels weak, and poor, and base;
Bearing wealth God’s heart is prizing,
Glory from Christ’s blessed face.

Oh, to be but emptier, lowlier,
Mean, unnoticed, and unknown,
And to God a vessel holier,
Filled with Christ, and Christ alone!
Naught of earth to cloud the glory,
Naught of self the light to dim,
Telling forth His wondrous story,
Emptied—to be filled with Him.

There is a decent piano version here. I don’t care for (read: I’m unfamiliar with) the extra beat at the end of the bridge section.

If you were choosing funeral songs for a grandma, what would you pick?

A Fitting Farewell

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Grandson pallbearers.


The honor guard

In a culture where casual is cool, the formal ceremony of military honors is arresting. It is sobering. It is potent.

Every note of Taps, every fold of the flag, every word in the presentation of the flag is crystal clear, separate and distinct, heard and viewed while we all seem to collectively hold our breaths.


I’ve written before about clean grief.

Sorrow can be such a complicated thing. It easily gets muddied with regrets, splattered with the wrong actions of the deceased, splotched with omissions, and speckled with questions.

One of the gifts we can give to those we leave behind is the gift of clean grief. The difference between clean and mucked-up grief is the difference between the cut of a surgeon’s sterilized knife and the puncture of a rusty nail. Both are incredibly painful, both require a time of healing, and both leave scars; but the puncture requires much cleansing in order to avoid infection and heal.
 

It is remarkable how satisfying a good funeral is. Harold’s four sons spoke of their father, noting who he was, what he did, what he loved, how he loved.  They were proud of their dad, privileged to praise his life. When it came down to one phrase, my Uncle Harold’s life was characterized by faithfulness outside the spotlight.

The best funerals are the ones which leave you inspired to imitate the life of the deceased.  We will never know the full extent of my uncle’s generosity, but I asked God to give me Harold’s eyes to see needs and his heart to respond to them.  Although he loved golf and achieved one of his lifetime goals of a hole-in-one during his retirement, his sunset years were focused on serving others until his final days. He wrote letters, corrected correspondence courses, led Bible studies, connected with people. I want to be as other-oriented as my uncle was. 

“Whenever I spend time with extended family, I learn more about myself,” my young cousin Ashlee remarked.  I learned and laughed about my Harper traits: stubbornness, odd frugality, obsessive book acquisitions (I had to force myself to walk away from the boxes of books in the garage) and fondness of ice cream. 

I came to Philadelphia to honor my uncle.  The friendship of my cousins is the only reason I have to return. It is, however, reason enough.   

~       ~     ~

My Uncle Harold was three things to me.

First, he was a bridge.  There was a time when my father and I had a little estrangement thing going.  Communication between us stalled, sputtered and stopped.  Uncle Harold loved both of us and used every opportunity to bridge the gap between us.  He did nothing heroic, but in his quiet way he worked for peace. [A cancer diagnosis was all my father and I needed to reconcile, which we did, thankfully, before he died.]

He was a beacon. Uncle Harold’s faith informed his opinions and decisions. His interest in my spiritual well-being was constant. I loved him for that.

And Uncle Harold was a bonus. The uncle/aunt-nephew/niece relationship is much less complicated than the parent-child relationship.  There are not the same expectations or obligations.  Sometimes it is as simple as “I know he loves me, and I know I love him.”  That’s how it was with my uncle. He was not obliged to come see me.  But he did.  Because he always picked up the tab of a shared meal, it was not until ten or fifteen years ago that I realized that Harold was not rich.  His life enriched mine, and I will always be thankful. 

A Reduction of Tears

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Nellie Stover Harper, March 23, 1920 – May 7, 1968

Sorrow has no shelf life.

There is, however, a difference between the jagged edges of fresh grief and the patina of an old grief worn smooth like a faded flannel shirt. The splash of hot tears and spasms of sobs wind down, and eventually become sighs and wistful smiles.

A reduction, in cooking terminology, uses heat and evaporation to get the essential flavors, the best bits, into a thicker base.

Grief–the healthy kind–can make a reduction of our tears, concentrating those salty drops into a savory flavoring.  Cardamom, by itself, is sharp and bitter, pungent and overwhelming. Reduced with cinnamon, cloves, ginger and black tea, it becomes a vital ingredient in chai.
  
Revelation (last book of the Bible) promises a day when God will wipe away all the tears and Psalm 56 speaks of God storing tears in a bottle.  

I know that God sees our tears.  And if he knows the hairs on our head, surely He knows every tear that falls. 
 
I know that God–the One who Redeems–transforms our sorrows, giving us beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning. 

I imagine that the oil of joy is a reduction of our tears, redeeming our sorrows and transforming them into praise. He gave the tears; one day we will offer them back to Him.

Let your steadfast love, O Lord, be upon us, even as we hope in you.

~

More thoughts on grief.

Some letters my mom wrote.

This Repeated Wedding Procession

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Note: We mourned the passing of our neighbors’ mom/grandma this week.  After the service, Curt and I sat down and wrote out our thoughts.  And Grace Will Lead Me Home has my reflections. This is my husband Curt’s gift of words to our friends.

There are three things which are too wonderful for me,

Four which I do not understand:

The way of an eagle in the sky,

The way of a serpent on a rock,

The way of a ship in the middle of the sea,

And the way of a man with a maid.

Proverbs 30:18-19


When I was younger, and when my eyes seemed smarter, I concluded that a marriage was best represented by the wedding ceremony.  Beauty, strength, desire, hope, vows, laughter, celebration, romance, honeymoon; all of these became for me the defining picture of a rich marriage.

But over the years my vision of marriage has sharpened beyond the blur of my youthful folly.  My own marriage has taught me the value of sacrifice over time.  My wife’s sustained love for me through the years has re-sketched my picture of a rich marriage.

I have witnessed many marriages that are in it for the long run.  These marathon marches through difficulties and joys continue to grip my attention and cause me to refocus.  My parents’ journey speaks loudly here.  But there is a particular snapshot etched indelibly in my mind, a rich picture of marriage, crafted before me on many occasions over these recent past years.

From the privacy of my own home, I have spied what for me has become a masterful image of marriage bliss.  Sitting at my table, watching through my window, an elderly couple has often climbed their son’s driveway to attend various family get-togethers.  Slowly, carefully, stooped and leaning upon one another, arm in arm–this repeated wedding procession has captured my attention.  Their destination was always happily realized through their courageous determination, but not without the pain of old joints, grimacing faces, and off-balance missteps.

Bob and Averil scaled with difficulty what for them was a steep climb.  And they probably never knew I was watching them, sometimes praying them onward to a welcoming front door.  I’m sure they were studying the ground for the sake of a safe arrival.  But I was studying them, for the sake of my own marriage, which has not yet fully arrived.  And one day yet future, I hope someone younger will notice the masterpiece before them, when Carol and I cannot walk forward unless we are walking together, leaning in upon one another.  Thank-you Bob.  And thank-you Averil.

 

And Grace Will Lead Me Home

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Averil’s church

The first thing I noticed was the silence.  There was no prelude music, no banal conversations in unmodulated tones, no one-sided cell phone silliness; just a few low whispers, the cadence of condolences, and the quiet old ladies whispering hush. Hugs and handshakes were given and received. In that extended silence there was a fundamental respect. 

Polished wood warmed the room: curved pews with carved detail, wooden rails and paneling, a traditional wooden hymn board with white numbers.  The April sun bled through the pointed arch stained glass windows, coloring the room.  Flowers curtained the front, embraced the casket. 

As the service began, we sang her favorite hymns: How Great Thou Art, In the Garden, and Amazing Grace.

When Christ shall come
With shouts of acclamation
And take me home,
What joy shall fill my heart!

Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

‘Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far
And Grace will lead me home.

We had gathered to pay our respects to Averil, a simple woman who made a difference.  Like her name, she came from a different time, from a culture of community and generosity, industry and responsibility.  Her mother was born in the post office; she was born in the telephone office.  Through Averil we saw an example of the habits and priorities of a life lived in service to others.  She “never walked across a floor without seeing something to pick up.”  She was born loving her parents.  She was an enabler of scholars.  

Her devotion to family extended in all directions.  The numbers of her life are staggering.  She was married 68 years; she and her husband kept her father-in-law 28 years.  Her children and grandchildren were lavish in their praise.  They were given a legacy of legendary country breakfasts, of hand-made quilts, of tailored clothing, of insistence on hard work, of garden produce, of hunting and fishing, and of countless plates of home cooked food.  There was no question which scripture passage would be read.  Proverbs 31 was precisely right.

The marriage of Bob and Averil is one of those rare and precious relationships.  Their love for one another was evident in their smiles, their speech, and especially as they held on to one another when they walked.

The service closed with the recitation of the Lord’s Prayer.  In United Methodist tradition, we used the word trespasses.  All those glorious esses in “as we forgive those who trespass against us” rebounded off each other in the air. 

There is something very satisfying about a good funeral.  At a good funeral you are inspired to imitate the deceased.  Good grief is the final gift Averil gave her family. 

We left full of gratitude. 
 
My husband’s thoughts about Bob and Averil’s marriage.
More thoughts on death.
More thoughts on grief.

Motherless Daughters

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DSC_8335

By 1996 I was certain sure I had made peace with grief.  Sorrow was a sealed file with the words RESOLVED stamped on the front.  I had been “moving on”, as they say, for decades.

Suddenly, with the stealth of a B-2 bomber, grief pounced and hijacked me.  While I was held hostage, facing my familiar adversary, I had the sense of confusion and disbelief: This cannot be happening to me.  It seemed surreal, disconnected, in short, unbelievable.

It was in that context of confused ongoing mourning that I first read Motherless Daughters.

My mother-in-law wanted to help; she gave me this book with the hesitant hope that it might give me something she herself couldn’t give.  I planted myself in the small bathroom at 10:00 p.m. on a Saturday night and started reading.  By 4:00 a.m. I had finished the book, exhausted, soggy,  numb, and emotionally done-in.

When Hope Edelman wrote about experiences, emotions and situations that I knew firsthand in my soul but had never spoken aloud, it could only be described as cathartic.  Edelman gave me words to articulate the sorrow and, more than anything, helped me to understand the nature of grief.  The first chapter, The Seasons of Grieving, is the best concise summary of grief that I have ever read.

I recently revisited Hope’s narrative.  I was surprised to see statements I’ve been saying so long that I thought they were my very own.  The words of the first chapter are still powerful and continue to resonate in my soul.  Back in 1996, they reassured me that I wasn’t some freak of nature who refused to “get over it.”

Having said that, I found the predominant value of this book much more in its diagnosis than in its therapy.

Quotes to copy:

Like most other families that lose a mother, mine coped as best it could, which meant, essentially, that we avoided all discussion of the loss and pretended to pick up exactly where we’d left off.

“My mother died when I was nineteen,” [Anna] Quindlen wrote. “For a long time, it was all you needed to know about me, a kind of vest-pocket description of my emotional complexion:  ‘Meet you in the lobby in ten minutes–I have long brown hair, am on the short side, have on a red coat, and my mother died when I was nineteen.'”

Ten years ago I was convinced I’d finished mourning my mother.  The truth was, I’d barely begun.

Edelman describes a random incident years after her mother’s death where she is balled up in physical pain, clutching her stomach.  She had thought she had sailed through the five stages of death and moved on.  I had a similar moment when, as if lightening from heaven, I was struck, pierced, skewered, with overwhelming grief.  I thought I was well-adjusted, “normal” and that everything was copacetic.  For no discernable reason (I mean the timing of the episode) I was brought to my knees, in tears, and incapable of articulating anything but deep, deep pain.  I ended up in a seldom-used restroom in our church, gasping for air, howling in anguish.  Someone got my husband and told him to go in and check on me.

Here’s what I’ve learned about grief since then: It’s not linear.  It’s not predictable.  It’s anything but smooth and self-contained.  Someone did us all a grave injustice by first implying that mourning has a distinct beginning, middle, and end.  That’s the stuff of short fiction.  It’s not real life.

Grief goes in cycles, like the seasons, like the moon.  No one is better created to understand this than a woman, whose bodily existence is marked by a monthly rhythm for more than half her life.

Lighthearted on a Heavy Day

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Nellie Harper, March 23, 1920 – May 7, 1968

Emotions are unpredictable, inexplicable, impenetrable, and, ultimately, irrepressible.

Life is chockablock with paradox.  In the midst of grief, laughter.  In the midst of celebration and joy, a pang of sorrow.

For decades May 7th has been a day of private grief.  Private, because it is an awkward and unwieldy burden.  There seemed no way to share the grief without the other person feeling clumsy.  

After years, however, the crying turns to sighing.  A sharp edges of grief are rubbed away.  [Many friends have lost their moms to something other than death.  Their grief is ongoing; the sharp edges continue to cut.]

Yesterday I cried as I read Cindy’s tribute to her mother-in-law who passed away on Tuesday. 

But today…today I woke up lighthearted.  Inexplicably lighthearted. 

Thankful for the gift of a godly mother.

Lighthearted on a heavy day.  This is a new mercy. 

 
More posts on grief,  May 7, 1968

My Feeling Bout Buryin’

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We had a *lively* discussion about burial and cremation in our cross-generational Sunday School class.  At one point my husband asked if there were more comments and eight hands went up at the same time.

I need time to develop my thoughts into a full entry.  Many folks choose cremation today because it is the most economical way to deal with a dead body.  A sixteen year old girl raised her hand and replied, “Yes, and a ceremony at the courthouse with the Justice of the Peace is the most economical way to get married.” 

In the same way the massive wedding industry has convinced many brides their wedding is probably not valid unles they spend $20K, the funeral industry has capitalized on grief and guilt in obscene ways.

Meanwhile I’m gulping in Cold Sassy Tree and came across this quote:

“Don’t go talkin’ about dyin’, Mr. Blakeslee.  I druther live in the past than dwell on that part of the future.  Still, since you brung it up, I’ll say this: my feeling bout buryin’ ain’t the same as your’n.  You remember that.”  She said the dead body was sacred, it having been a house for the mind and soul, and as such it deserved proper respect. “A nice funeral is a sort of thank-you,” she added. “A person’s body oughtn’t to be treated like no old dead dog.”  

More thoughts…sometime!

Living in the Shadow of Death

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Yesterday, I held my neighbor, shaking and sobbing, two hours after her beloved Tom breathed his last breath.  His story is too familiar: cancer, treatment, remission, cancer return, gone.  They were prepared for him to go in the fall, but not now. 

This morning as my husband sat up in bed, I pulled him back.  Just a little while longer.  I dread the day that we say our final good-byes, this man whom I have loved for 34 years.   My neighbor’s loss seems a vicarious dress rehearsal, a needed reminder of what is ahead. 

How do I live in the shadow of death? 

Trusting.  My hope and confidence are in the Lord.  I don’t want to be fearful, skittish, anxious, neurotic.  No man knows his time.  All I know is that when deep waters come, the strength will be provided. 

Savoring.  Each day, each conversation, each moment is a gift. 

Expressing.  The older we get, the more we affirm our love for one another.  In the middle of random moments he will say, Love you, babe.   I Love You is a good way to send a child out the door, end a phone conversation, say good night.  Even better is the conversation starter: You know what I love about you?

Confessing  Both confessing our sins and confessing our faith.  Why wait?

Forgiving  Leave no room for pettiness.  Funny thing, we see it in others but are blind to it in ourselves.  Put the best possible construction on actions or attitudes you don’t understand. 

Enjoying   There is truth, beauty and goodness surrounding us.  This is my Father’s world.  

Obeying   For me, it always comes to trust and obey.  There is no other way.

A Throat Lumpish Day

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Geese on the lawn by the Columbia River

Early in the morning, we heard of the death of Tony Snow.  We really liked Tony Snow.  And he’s very, very close to our age.  Like us, he had three kids.  We will miss you, Tony.

The mail delivered a Jackson Browne CD.  We plopped it in the player and a blue funk sort of followed us around the house.  There is no one who sings sad songs better than Jackson Browne.  It fit our mournful mood.

A young friend of ours was married this afternoon.  It was an expurgated wedding ceremony: any mention of God, Lord, ceremony, or sacrifice was removed.  The Officiant was a twenty-something man who received a license to perform a marriage ceremony over the internet. The word “covenant” and “husband” and “wife” had one mention a piece, but it was mostly partner, love, listen, laugh, love, partner.  The couple was thoroughly consistent with their beliefs, but the overall effect was disheartening. 

The Anniversary Dance (where all married couples dance, and start sitting down if they’ve been married 1 year, 5 years, etc.) was the only time Curt and I danced, singing to each other, “Can I have this dance for the rest of my life?”  The last two couples standing were the bride’s two sets of grandparents.  We all applauded them with abandon. 

One Grandma was hunched over at the waist, her husband tenderly holding her.  They have been married 65 years. 

The other grandparents barely moved, just swayed and smiled.  That Grandpa, battling cancer-with that toxic look of a chemo patient- used all his reserves to dance one last dance with his wife of 52 years.  His sun is setting, and he appears to have months or even weeks left.  A very throat-lumpish day.

Tonight’s sunset