The Beauty of Remembering

Over the past 18 months, I have attended far too many memorial services. Ironically, none of these life losses have been due to Covid, but rather the result of cancer, chronic illness or aging. Some have been acquaintances, some family, and others, friends… a small few — heart-deep soul-friends. Ultimately, though, it matters not how close a person was at the time of their passing; each one leaves an imprint upon the heart, a gash in the soul - some deeper than others, but always a cut that leaches out a little bit of life, a little bit of me.

Each person who makes their way into the sphere of our lives has impact, leaving an impression that may be fleeting - but an impression nonetheless. The depth and color of that impression for each person is felt and known in the memories they leave behind— in the amount of light-space they have claimed as their own in your heart. It’s that heart-space that is held close, that demands the memories of their lives be expressed, voiced, sung aloud to the heavens in declaration that this person’s life had meaning, worth, value; that his or her life was one of caring and joy and love.

Sunday, my husband and I attended a memorial service for his uncle, a man my husband had loved, the last of four brothers to leave this world to the next generation. It was this memorial service (as well as one we’d attended a couple of weeks’ earlier) that brought home to me just how important it is to gather as friends and family in testimony to a life well lived, to great love shared. In addition to giving us an opportunity to reconnect with family (some of whom we’d not seen for 50 years), this small intimate gathering in his widow’s back yard overwhelmed me with its gracious simplicity, with the heartfelt outpouring of memories shared, lives changed, hearts loved— providing a holy mingling of tears and laughter.

Having grown up Roman Catholic, and then as a practicing Episcopalian for the first 50 years of my life, most of what I’ve known in marking the passing of family or loved one has been ritual: wakes and funeral masses, with the recitation of liturgy, the sprinkling of holy water, anointing by holy oil; the solemn processions and sad intonations of priests, the rote assurances of a better life followed by solemn hymns. And that is not necessarily a bad thing, but what does one do with the memories? With the kaleidoscopic images and impressions that screen across one’s mind, building up like a geyser inside for want of sharing, of speaking aloud the beautiful, the poignant, the loving memories of the person who’s gone ahead to the eternal?

The memorial service we attended on Sunday was far from somber. There were tears, of course, but these tears were mixed with the joy of sharing the stories; the shaman-like telling of the words and actions of a person that marked him as special, as worthy of witness, worthy of remembrance and love. As a beloved uncle who’d never had children of his own, this man took on his role as uncle seriously, with deep love and compassion. Person after person recounted their own story of his kindness, his humor, his reaching out to young child and awkward teen and confused young adult with balanced wisdom, understanding and humor. His boundless energy was expressed in his sharing his love of sailing and skiing with his “kids”; his quirky sense of humor remembered with fondness as stories were shared with smiles, laughter and a few tears.

When all was said and done, a family picture was taken of those present. The photo is telling in the reflection of the close-knit bonding of these people who may not have seen each other often, but who’s bond of family and love had been made stronger by the sharing of the memories; the witness to a life well lived. The photo shows bodies tugged-in tight; faces alight with the release of a little bit of the sorrow, and the brightness of just a little bit more understanding of the man remembered, of the love shared.

Gathering together to remember one who has gone before is a holy undertaking, a sacred blessing to those who take the time to assemble to remember the one who’s life mattered; one who loved and laughed and lived well.

I gather for another memorial service in a couple of weeks for my dearest friend who passed over a year ago; it’s taken us that long to heal enough to speak aloud the blessing her life was to us. I’m kind of glad now that it’s taken this long to happen.

Now, I know the beauty in remembering another well, in the telling of another’s life and love.

Now, I know the beauty in remembering as a precious gift to those left behind, telling the stories.

Now, I know the beauty in remembering through the sadness and the tears.

Now I know.