There is a part of our human experience that awakens an attitude of reverence, awe, and ultimate respect; an often-wordless category that encompasses what can only be referred to as the sacred.
If you’re like me, you don’t stay continually aware of what’s most dear to you. But when you come back to it –through the gift of remembrance, perhaps at the birth of a child, or at a wedding or a funeral, or walking deep in the woods – there’s a sense of having the eyes of your heart enlightened, of “yes,” of knowing that this really matters and deserves my honoring and protection and care.
Imagine a life in which nothing was sacred to you – or to anyone else. A life of indifference in which we willingly sacrifice all that is sacred at the altar of self. To me, such a life would be devoid, desolate and lonely.
I was reminded of this at a recent “celebration of life” memorial service for my wife’s aunt, Louise Mosher, who passed away just days shy of ninety nine and a half years old, and who only recently began living with assistance.
As we entered the sanctuary, it was customarily subdued with the only sounds emanating from the piano navigated by an unobtrusive pianist who played familiar hymns, no doubt beloved and requested by the family.
As we waited for the service to begin, the lyrics to Ysaye Barnwell’s 1992 song titled: “Wanting Memories,” came to mind:
“I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me to see the beauty in the world through my own eyes.
I think on the things that made me feel so wonderful when I was young.
I think on the things that made me laugh, made me dance, made me sing.
I know that who I am is numbered in each grain of sand.
I know that I’ve been blessed, again, and over again.”
Captivated in thought, I watched as attendants approached the casket and bowed before removing the large colorful bouquet of flowers that adorned the domed top. The two men attentively folded in the delicate silk fabric and ceremoniously reached up and lowered the lid, stepped back and once again bowed before walking back up the aisle.
While I have attended many funerals, over the years, I do not recall being so struck by the significance of this action, it touched me deeply… closing the lid on a person’s life.
A life, in its latter years, challenged by a weakening body and difficulty breathing… a life, in recent months, not comfortable, not living as it would have liked to be living. A life, but a shadow of what it once was; and yet – in my wife’s aunt’s case – a life that knew all was well with her soul.
Louise would remember out loud. One piece of her life at a time, one piece of her story at a time. Many stories of ordinary life; but there were also the extraordinary stories.
Stories of meeting, courting, and marrying her husband, who had been the sole survivor in a plane that came under enemy fire during World War II. Stories of smuggling Bibles across the Iron Curtain, getting stopped and searched and passed through a checkpoint, by God’s grace, in spite of a back seat full of God’s Word that border guards missed.
These were stories lovingly, and a bit longingly, recollected by a woman writing the closing chapter of her life.
So many losses as we get older… the loss of a culture that is familiar, the loss of a body that we wish we still had, the loss of mobility, the fear of the loss of our own value. The voices – of those younger than we are – seem to get louder and more relevant as we age, leaving some to wonder when their voice ceased to hold value, when their life experience became irrelevant.
Louise pondered these things and much more… not in a complaining way, more in a matter-of-fact, observant way.
The great adventure had drawn to a close; symbolized by the closing of that lid.
No pretentious platitudes… simple, sincere tribute for a person who will no longer walk among us, their future presence to be held within the heart and recalled in photographed memories.
For me, I have come to understand and value, there is a profound refuge in acknowledging the sacred. What holiness there is in this world resides in the ordinary bonds between us and in whatever bonds we manage to create between ourselves and the divine.
My thanks to Louise’s daughter, Tammy Olsen and Faith Covenant Church, Burnsville Family Life Pastor, Char Rotvold for sharing their reflections.
Former Cook County Commissioner Garry Gamble is writing this ongoing column about the various ways government works, as well as other topics. At times the column is editorial in nature.
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