The Unsent Letter

My mom called me last week, only a few hours after writing last week's post, to tell me that my grandmother had died. I've spent the past week with family, funeral planning, mourning, and remembering her. This week, as I return back to my regularly scheduled programming, I have realized I never got to send her a letter. The truth, is that I have a get well soon card sitting on my desk, unsent. I thought I was going to have more time.

It's one of the things I'm realizing through this practice, that gratitude demands that we not assume there will be more time. More time to say, "I love you", more time to say. "I'm sorry", more time to say, "Thank you for loving me the best you could." What I often do is fill that time complaining, being unsatisfied or irritated about things that are absolutely inconsequential. Part of this practice is my attempt to do more of the former and less of the latter. But sometimes, the letter remains unsent. So in lieu of her letter, I'm going to post the eulogy I read at her funeral. They are the truest words I could write about her, and it is, at heart, a letter of gratitude. Miss you, Grandma.

          When my family and I were talking last night, we spent some time discussing some of the things that we were grateful that Grandma had passed on to us. We all appreciated the many British qualities she passed down, particularly a dry sense of humor. When I was little, I remember being very proud of our heritage. I told my class that my grandma was English. You know, from England.  The truth is though, that she was always a very private person, and I only learned about her in bits in pieces. I learned more about her as an adult, hearing about how she was born in London, and was moved into the country during the blitz after part of her house was damaged during a bomb raid. She was a singer as a young adult, and performed at different venues before recording a record and moving to the States. While I never have heard her sing, I think that’s where B---- gets her vocal talent, and is probably why my sisters and I love to harmonize to the Indigo Girls on long car rides.

            I was glad to see Ecclesiastes 3:1-11 scrawled in the front of her bible yesterday, because it’s one of my favorite passages of scripture. I love this passage because it simultaneously comforts and unsettles me. There are moments in my life where I feel like things happen when they should, when I find meaning behind change and blessing, when I see a reason to disappointment and even loss. But there are other times, when I hear “to everything there is a season, to every matter under heaven”, and I think, “God, this is the worst possible season for this thing to happen to me.” And the truth is, is that like all of our lives, Grandma’s life was not all rainbows and sunshine. She went through many hard things, some outside of her control, and some of her own making.

Many of us who love her deeply, our lives are informed by her life, decisions, and circumstances. She spent many years as a single mom, at a time when it was not socially acceptable to be a single mom. And she did it far from her family. But to everything there is a season, and there is a time to plant, and where there was no family, she planted one, and built a family in her children, and in the people she met and loved like Aunt K--- and Grandma P----. And any woman who can grow a garden in untilled ground is a hero in my book.

I didn’t know her during those years, but I reaped the rewards of her strength and love through my mom, aunts and uncles, and through her presence in my life. And I learned about her quiet way to love as I grew up.

Grandma was able to articulate a lot with very few words, and one of her favorite memories of me, that she would tease me about was not one of my finest moments. Grandma was able to convey her disapproval without saying anything. And one lesson I had learned from my mom was don’t sass Grandma. One day, when I was 7 or 8,  she was at our house with my mom and Grandma had given me some advice about something. And I remember thinking, I don’t know who this woman thinks she is, but she has no idea what she is talking about. So I turned around and said, “Grandma, why don’t you mind your own beeswax.” And her face that said, "I cannot believe you just said that to me", and my Mom's presence behind me, that I can only describe as the wrath of God, taught me a valuable lesson. The writer of Ecclesiastes said there is a season for many things. But there is never a season for sassing Grandmas.

I will miss Grandma a lot. I will miss our phone conversations about politics. I will miss her loving birthday cards, and her sweet tooth, and her love of animals. But I will carry her with me through all of the seasons of my life, and I will cherish what she has taught me about family, and faith, and the power of love.

Living the Time That's Left

I attended a funeral this morning. This isn't a particularly uncommon in my profession, since funerals, death, and grief are as much a part of faith as anything. This morning, however, I attended the funeral of a parishioner, whose spouse is Catholic, so rather than officiating, I attended. Sat in the pews, sang the hymns, listened to the homily. You know, worship. It is a rare gift as clergy to be able to receive worship rather than to be the one making it happen, even on sad occasions. 

The priest shared a great deal about the way this person had lived. The joy he had spread to others, the generosity he had had for the community, the way he had shared himself to those he loved. The man being memorialized was an embodiment of gratitude--it permeated every aspect of his life. He had been a walking, talking letter of gratitude. It got me thinking about what kind of effect gratitude has had and will continue to have on me. My hope is that as I continue this practice, gratitude will slip into other aspects of my life, tucked into quiet conversations and important moments. My hope is that this practice will become infectious, so that I will feel gratitude in unsuspecting places, and will feel free to share gratitude with anyone. 

So far, to be honest, it's still hard. It makes me feel vulnerable and sometimes uncomfortable to put myself out there, even to people I cherish. But someday, my loved ones will be gone, and I don't want to spend the moments after regretting the things I've left unsaid. And somedays after, I will be gone, too. I want those who have known me to know gratitude, through the ways that I lived, for the things that I said, for the ways that I was afraid but didn't let fear stop me. If I can do that and know with my last breath that I could and did embody gratitude, then I will be satisfied. That is worth the risk. 

Reunioning

This past summer, I officiated a wedding for a couple of friends from college. It had been a year of officiating a number of weddings for friends, actually. Despite the fact that I consider myself a romantic at heart, I tend to be a curmudgeon when it comes to weddings. One of the downsides of being a minister is that you see the worst of weddings. People who don't show they love each other well. Bridezillas or groomzillas (yes, there are plenty of both). Families who can't get along and aren't emotionally mature enough to knock off the drama for one. damn. afternoon. Family members or friends who can't manage to stay sober until after the ceremony is over. People obsessed with perfection. Weddings, I have learned, can go from lovely to a hot mess in a matter of minutes.

Yet last year's weddings have reminded me of how beautiful and touching the day can be. They were testaments to the fact that for those couples who have their priorities in the right place, the day will be just fine. And the wedding I officiated over the summer were for two lovely people, both of whom are generous and warm and kind, and love each other deeply.

It was a double blessing, because it gave me a chance to see many friends from college who I hadn't seen in years. I wondered whether it would be awkward, and whether we would still have things to talk about after the long stretch of time and distance. I shouldn't have worried. It's the wonderful thing about having chosen friends well; even after many years, you're able to pick up where you've left off. The weekend of the wedding felt like a reunion; it was so good to see old friends who knew me in a particular way during a formative time in my life. Which is why I felt so much warmth when I selected this week's person to write a letter to--one of the friends from that group. I lived with Maya* in a house with 10 other people for a year in college. It was one of the best and weirdest experiences I had. Living with 10 people taught me a lot. Maya taught me a lot, too, and it was in that house that we and other housemates would exchange ideas, philosophies, theologies (or reasons against theology), beliefs, fears,  and jokes. Maya has this hilarious dry wit that only comes from someone who pays attention and is smart as a whip. One of the things I realized this summer, and that came back for me as I wrote this letter was that I missed that space, and I missed those people whose lives changed me in subtle but important ways.

It's one of the growing pains of growing up; you can't always be in touch with all of the people who have impacted your life. People move away. People get married. Some have babies. Priorities change. But even if time or circumstance or miles change your relationship, it doesn't change the effect those people have had on you. Sometimes you get the blessing of reconnection. Sometimes you don't. But it feels good to be grateful for moments already gone by, and moments yet to come.


*name changed