On Grief
Reading and sermon preached by Reverend Carolyn Patierno
October 29, 2006

"The Soul at Last", from Why I Wake Early by Mary Oliver

The Lord’s terrifying kindness has come to
me.

It was only a small silvery thing – say a piece
of silver cloth, or a thousand spider webs
woven together, or a small handful of aspen
leaves, with their silver backs shimmering.
And it came leaping out of the closed coffin;
it flew into the air, it danced snappingly
around the church rafters, it vanished through
the ceiling.

I spoke there, briefly, of the loved one gone. 

I gazed at the people in the pews, some of them
weeping.  I knew I must, someday, write this
down.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Last year for the annual sermon I share on grief and mourning, I had planned to leap from Mary Oliver’s poem, The Soul at Last, but the wind shifted and my mind sailed elsewhere.  So, this morning we’ll take up her experience – the one she knew that she had to, someday, write down. 

The Lord’s terrifying kindness has come to me, she begins.  Terrifying, perhaps because that kindness, the one she knew she had to write down, came as such a surprise.  Unexpected and so beautiful, and yes, a little terrifying when we find ourselves in the middle of it.  It was only a small silvery thing – say a piece / of silver cloth, or a thousand spider webs / woven together, or a small handful of aspen / leaves, with their silver backs shimmering. / And it came leaping out of the closed coffin, /  it flew into the air, it danced snappingly / around the church rafters, it vanished through / the ceiling.

And there she is left behind beside the coffin … speaking of the loved one gone … looking out at the people in the pews, many of them weeping.  What a stunning surprise.  Now, the title of this poem suggests that what the poet believes she has witnessed is the soul of the departed … departing.  There are theologies that suggest that the soul remains on this plane for a length of time and then ascends (or descends, depending on your point of view).  Perhaps that is indeed what the poet witnessed.  Whatever it was, it was also mystery.  A beautiful, breathtaking mystery. 

But what I’d like to reflect on is the beauty the poet describes - the stunning and surprising beauty.  It is in that moment that everything seems to stop around her.  She seemingly comes out of herself and her grief to take in this mystery.  Right there during the funeral and beside the coffin.

Haven’t you had moments like that?  Moments when your grief and the pain it brings is seemingly unbearable … when you’re sure that your chest will break open from it … when blessedly, there comes a moment when you feel your heart has been jolted … and the rest of you follows, mind, body, and the soul at last.  It is this strange beauty that jolts us toward life.  In this beauty lies the power to lift our battered hearts above grief to make it bearable – briefly, at least. 

Ritual that is wrapped in beauty serves this function, delivers us from the solitude of grief.  The poet, beside the coffin, witnessed mystery in the midst of the weeping congregation.  Her grief was held and in fact, the ritual provided time and space to be carried from the solitude of grief.  The rituals we access to mourn together serve as container for grief because, God knows, we’ve all but completely lost a cultural respect for the energy that grief demands.  When we gather for the funeral, for the memorial service, we honor a tradition that goes back centuries, that ties us to ancestors upon whose ancient shoulders we stand.  We gather to weep and to moan and to laugh, even.   And we go to great lengths to fill that space and time we share with beauty that peaks all of our senses.  There is music.  A singular voice or an organ with pipes from floor to rafters.  And then, silence.  The aroma of food being prepared to feed the bodies of the living - to feed and fuel our souls.  Poetry.  Scripture.   Stories that will continue on.  Sympathy captured and exchanged when we embrace.  Flowers.  Oh, yes.  There will be flowers.  I’m not all for the “in lieu of flowers” we so often see in obituaries today.  I say deck the halls with boughs of holly and the dearly departed’s most beloved blooms and colors.  In their beauty we are comforted.  And yes, by all means, give to help find a cure, sustain needed services, support a life saving institution.  But bring on the flowers, friends.  Don’t sacrifice the refuge we find in the flowers … that lovely surprise that cradles our hearts when we read the card from loved ones who are far-off but find their way to the church through the gladiolas. 

That surprise.  The grief that is relieved in that kindness.  Alas, it is a relief that is not often sustained but we do remember it.  Sometimes merely remembering that moment of relief … relief from grief’s relentless weight … is enough of a life raft in the dark days. 

There are other surprises at grief’s door.  I think one is that grief makes us stronger.  It’s true.  Because it doesn’t take long to realize that in the aftermath of a great loss, our grief isn’t going anywhere.  It pretty much takes up residence in our hearts and souls so that our task really, is to make peace with it.  Learn to love it despite the ways that it drags us down and disappoints us because, well, grief doesn’t change.  We change.  

We become more compassionate and patient with others.  Hopefully, we are as compassionate to ourselves.  We learn to let go of the illusion that we have a modicum of control over anything that really matters.  We become more loving as we understand with a depth of certainty previously unimaginable that love is strong as death.  Last year I concluded thusly:

There is much to learn from grief.  New truths reveal themselves.  But there is one eternal truth and it is one about which the biblical writer professes to set as a seal upon his arm.  “For love is strong as death.”   Love is strong as death. 

We learn that lesson.  That lesson is a good one. 

Young Lane Campbell lost her young father last spring.  Many of you know Lane and her beloved family.  Lane has been dealing with her grief in a most mindful way and in a way that I’ve increasingly witnessed.  She did set her father as a seal upon her … calf, in fact.  She had tattooed on her leg the image on the memory card we created for her father.  It was an image of a tree that indicated the turning of the seasons as the turning of a life.  She’s also writing poetry that she shares with Ginny, her mother.  Through Ginny, Lane generously shared these poems with me.  They’re all beautiful and deeply moving, as you’d imagine. I was taken by all of them but most especially by Lane’s description of her grieving.  She acknowledges that at times, it’s hard to leave her home.  Lane writes:

I want to stay at home / coddling your memory-caring for it / Making sure it doesn't die / Feeding it, soothing it, singing to it / Like a mother to [her] child.

Love is strong as death.  Lane is learning that and using her love to care for her grief.  Caring for her father’s memory as she learns to care for her own heart, now broken open. 

Suffering is not something we wish on anyone.  But no matter, we all suffer.  It is when we are open to sorrow’s surprises, it’s grace, it’s terrible kindness and beauty that we are rescued from it’s seductive and devastating underside.  It must be fed, soothed, and sung to … as Lane in her wisdom seems to understand.  In the wake of her father’s death and the start of her relationship to her own grief, Lane is learning a depth of compassion, love, and strength to which she previously had no access. 

It’s such a surprise.  And when we find ourselves surprised by grief’s lessons, we know we must someday tell it or write it down.   Lane knows.

When I was doing my clinical pastoral education, I was called to respond to the  death of one of the hospital staff.  I had no idea what I was walking into when the supervisor desperately flagged me into her office.  She and another staff member were anxious to get out of Dodge.  They were scared by the grief expressed by another one of their colleagues.  There she sat – a woman who happened to have also been the dead woman’s lifelong and best friend.  Well, I acutely knew what that woman was feeling at that moment, having lost my own best friend just two years earlier.  I also knew what lay ahead.  She was, of course, inconsolable – a total wreck. 

When she began to have trouble catching her breath, I pulled up my chair so that we were sitting knee to knee.  I looked her in the face and I said, “You know, my best friend died two years ago.  I’m here to tell you that it sucks.  And it never gets better.”   I was kind of surprised by what came out of my mouth, truth be told.  But it was and is the truth.  I guess what I offered her was akin to a pastoral slap in the face.  What I said to her came as a surprise.  And it worked.  She caught her breath, bless her heart. 

In sum, the take home messages for today are these:  in grief, we are surprised and saved by beauty; over time grief doesn’t change – we do; and finally, send the flowers.

And so, I wish for all of you who are suffering, a terrifying kindness and the presence of mind to catch this beauty and mystery whether it be dancing snappingly around the church rafters or calling you up short in the daily-ness of your life.

Blessed be.  Amen.