Consolation

Days like this one don't come along with any regularity. And, for that I am grateful. Not that I wouldn't do it all again. Officiating funerals is something I am trained to do and one of the things I do well. But, this funeral ranks among the hardest and most sad in my memory. The two young women closest to the deceased, his daughters, were vividly strong one minute and bereft the next. Staying somewhat detached and professional in the presence of emotion that intense was nearly impossible.

I always find it odd, from my perspective as a priest and a liturgist, that I can do one thing and think about another -- at the same time. That's not precisely right. I can be in the process of carrying out some duty, quite focused, in fact, and all the while another train of thought is developing, coming to life. I can even observe myself in action, another self, it seems, another aspect of myself, watching carefully, even providing commentary.

Today the older of the two young women spoke during the time in the liturgy set aside for the homily. Strong, clear-voiced, controlled, then wavering, then regaining control, she related memories of her father and thanked the assembled congregation for their presence and their support. At one point the younger daughter, unable to remain composed, simply put her head on her knees and wept.

There is nothing to say to make it better. Absolutely no one understands their father's decision. But, I read all the words anyway. I spoke of that I know for sure. I cried, too.

Through it all, through the entire half hour, though, I was trying to work out fragments of a poem, phrases I had heard somewhere. Ceaselessly. There I was offering confort and in the back of my mind I kept countering "consolation" with "desolation."

Once home the only word I can think of to describe myself is saggy. But, as I sagged, it came to me. The countering word wasn't actually "desolation." And, what I'd been working to remember were words written by Thomas Moore, the words of an old hymn. "Oh, yes," I sighed. Then, I laughed when I looked it up and saw the name of the hymn tune, written by Samual Webb: Consolator.

These are the word of the first stanza, the one I'd heard somewhere before and was working to remember.

Come, ye disconsolate, where'er ye languish,
Come to the mercy seat, fervently kneel.
Here bring your wounded hearts; here tell your anguish;
Earth has so sorrow that heaven cannot heal.

While I didn't have those words to offer the grieving this afternoon, I don't think that's what I was supposed to do with them anyway. The working of my mind while I officiated that funeral was offering me something, not them. And, I wasn't to make me strong, either. Whatever it is that has me officiating liturgy and thinking about something seemingly unrelated at the same time may well serve to help me become more deeply involved, not serve as a distraction. Today I guided a room full of people through an official observance of a life lived and a life ended. But, a part of me was suffering, precisely what I was supposed to be doing.

A gray day

The days of late have been wet and cold. And, today dawned foggy. With errands to do -- like the grocery story and the pharmacy -- requiring moving a vehicle, we included a walk on the Governor's Rail Trail (a two-mile round trip) in Edgefield part of our outing. While we set out across the dam at Slade Lake in dense fog, that fog eventually formed drops and we ended up wet. And, everything we saw dripped.


This sort of damp darkness doesn't necessarily have a negative effect on me. In fact, I rather like overcast days. (I've been known to say that they match my personality.) This one, though, took a turn toward a heavy sadness.

The county coronor called during the afternoon to ask a favor. He had with him at the funeral home two twenty-something women, daughters of a man who had died. They were the next-of-kin, one living in Charleston and the other in Chicago, planning a funeral and coming to terms not only with his death but with his suicide. Would I help? Would I officiate? No time to fill the silence after the question mark with explanations of canon law. Planning a funeral to be held on Monday is next.

But, before that. The late afternoon, still and grey, was perfect for another attempt at a panorama of a favorite spot on our usual walking route -- recently trimmed pampas grass at the 13th green on the Pine Ridge Country Club golf course. This one is better than previous efforts, but not the one just yet. But, I think it sets the tone for the end of this day. Somber and sedate.

An anniversary

I awoke this morning and my first thought was of the date: December 27th. I was baptised at the Presbyterian Church in Milford Michigan at the age of four months and two days on this date 55 years ago.

Since my priesting I've always told families, parents and godparents in particular, to make as big a deal over the baptism anniversary of the child in question as they do birthdays, baptism being a rebirth and a day the faith was claimed officially for the child. My own observance of December 27th, also the feast of St John, is quiet, generally private, and sweetly fraught with memories of the people now gone who were likely present for the event. I've not thought about it before; I wonder if any photographs were made that day ...

During the day I spent time with the widower of a lovely former parishioner who died unexpectedly on Christmas morning. He and their two adult children are still in shock but able to talk about the details of the service we will have on Monday. (I have been given permission by both the diocesan archdeacon and the bishop to officiate the burial.) During my visit they also told me several dear stories of their beloved wife and mother.

One of the details I learned is that the marriage had reached its 55th anniversary a mere three days before Christmas. So, we -- that long-married couple and I -- have the number 55 in common. That's a connection all of us agreed we like.