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I decided to make an announcement in church this morning about Margie's death, despite being pretty sure that not many present had even heard of her. (At least one had who told me so; her son-in-law, one of our former ministers, served briefly at Asbury with Margie not long after we left there.) As I thought out the brief words and then blurted them out, I felt myself tearing up. That's not something that comes naturally to me. Not for either sets of parents' or parents-in laws' deaths, or my sister's, or my mentor's 18 months into my career, or any of the beloved companions we've sent to Rainbow Bridge.
No, today- for a wonderful woman who lived her faith as well as she preached it, but one I hadn't seen in probably more than 15 years. Tears for her but not for so many others.
Some, no doubt, was the suddenness. The sacred setting, contributing as well; following those concerns and celebrations, the choir sang a hymn commissioned for the church in memory of a long-time member who died earlier this year (father of our two choir directors and grandfather of one of the featured soloists), and while I hadn't heard it yet, I was still mindful of its coming- as I am for yet another one they're debuting next Sunday, in memory of a longtime choir member named Lois who died the year before. I knew her far better than I did Margie, or the honoree of today's piece, so I'm thinking some Kleenex may well be in order then, as well.
As much as anything, though, I think I was brought to tears by feeling, at that moment, rather alone in the sorrow- not knowing yet that Willow across the aisle knew Margie, I felt I was preaching to a choir of one in trying to convey just how amazing this life was and how missed it will be. Yet the number of people who expressed sympathy to me following that message comforted me- as have those of you who have left words of it here.
No matter how remote to me, or even you, a moment of sadness or loss may seem, please always feel you have an ear or a shoulder here to share it if you wish. Because it does help. And it does get better.
No, today- for a wonderful woman who lived her faith as well as she preached it, but one I hadn't seen in probably more than 15 years. Tears for her but not for so many others.
Some, no doubt, was the suddenness. The sacred setting, contributing as well; following those concerns and celebrations, the choir sang a hymn commissioned for the church in memory of a long-time member who died earlier this year (father of our two choir directors and grandfather of one of the featured soloists), and while I hadn't heard it yet, I was still mindful of its coming- as I am for yet another one they're debuting next Sunday, in memory of a longtime choir member named Lois who died the year before. I knew her far better than I did Margie, or the honoree of today's piece, so I'm thinking some Kleenex may well be in order then, as well.
As much as anything, though, I think I was brought to tears by feeling, at that moment, rather alone in the sorrow- not knowing yet that Willow across the aisle knew Margie, I felt I was preaching to a choir of one in trying to convey just how amazing this life was and how missed it will be. Yet the number of people who expressed sympathy to me following that message comforted me- as have those of you who have left words of it here.
No matter how remote to me, or even you, a moment of sadness or loss may seem, please always feel you have an ear or a shoulder here to share it if you wish. Because it does help. And it does get better.