Just before Christmas I had the honor of attending the memorial service of Dorothy Mae Crawford, one of the saints of Los Alamos, New Mexico. I only had the privilege of knowing her for two years, but in that time discovered what a fierce and generous supporter she was of Sonlight’s ministry. (A painting she did while on retreat at Sonlight is at the head of this blog post.)
She died suddenly at Thanksgiving-time last year; her service was scheduled during the Christmas break, when all the family had planned to gather at home anyway. Because I knew her and, as most who knew her must do, loved her I made the drive to be present at her memorial service.
There are those, I know, who avoid these kinds of functions out of a sense of fear or despair. Precisely because of the events which bring them about, I find them to be some of the most honest, hopeful, and beautiful moments one can observe in community life. I always discover deeply wonderful things about folks when I attend their memorial services. I think the survivors (of which I am one, for at least a little while longer—who knows?) feel a desire, in the face of death, to lift up the beautiful and lasting things about the deceased. So memorial services become a time to consider not just our own mortality (for only the most self-blinded can fail to see their own end in that moment) but also what is good, right, and gorgeous about the life we have been given.
I learned that Dorothy was an unsung hero of the New Mexico nursing community. I learned that she had a great passion for flower arranging. I learned that the kind and joyful spirit of wisdom I saw in her touched almost everyone she met. I was reminded of yet another place in which God’s ever-creating and re-creating spirit was at work in a small corner of the world.
In my former career, I heard it every time a family talked with me about funeral arrangements. “We don’t want a funeral. We want a celebration of life.” Check. But I never typed “Celebration of Life” on our bulletins. My ecclesial tradition held on to a unique moniker for this event: a service in witness to the resurrection—of Jesus Christ and (in this case) Dorothy Mae Crawford. Herein lies my greatest reason for going to the funeral: At the moment when death looms most fiercely, hope is laid bare and shines most brightly. The stark confession of Christians that Jesus is risen (He is risen indeed!) and that we will rise with him rings most loudly at these celebrations of Life.
Much of the early Church worshipped in catacombs—the underground hallways of the dead. I find it an important discipline to revisit the catacomb, the funeral, whenever I can. Should you ever find yourself faced with the question of whether or not to go to the funeral, let me offer you an encouragement. Go! For there the promise of life speaks most clearly.
~ emrys