Stopping By

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight.

I am the soft star-shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there; I did not die.

Mary Elizabeth Frye’s poem is in mind every time. Norman isn’t there, of course, and part of my prayer is always, “You aren’t here, but where else can we meet?” Perhaps he and Gordon and I could meet in the sanctuary at St. Thomas by the Sea, maybe at times when no one else is around. But on retiring I turned in my key, so that’s out.

Some people don’t visit the cemetery. Some do, I’m one, but I can understand not doing so: a friend still cannot visit the grave of his son even decades later, the pain of the loss is so terrible. For other folks, in other cases, stopping by may be -- not exactly satisfying perhaps, but -- ineffably -- helpful, brings closer somehow, real or unreal. Clears the mind in a way, refreshes the soul, the spirit somehow. A breath of fresh air, a breeze for a moment. What is that?

Before a funeral recently, the family gathered with me in the back room with the columbarium where already were the urns of two loved ones who died over a decade ago. We unlocked and opened the cubicles so they could be closer, touch, talk, pray and weep, laugh and remember. It was an immensely helpful, uniting moment for the family, stopping by before going into the church and down the aisle together for their next funeral for a loved one.

We don’t know what comes after this, what follows death -- something, nothing, paradise, oblivion, a shadowy Gehenna, Gan Eden, Olam Ha Ba of the world to come. And believing doesn’t make it so anyway, but we can hope, we can seek and find assurance in faith. Furthermore, hope trumps despair; so we can rest in faith, abide in faith, the hope of things not seen.

Frye's poem notwithstanding, while we are still here we can stop by from time to time for that breath of fresh air, refreshing breeze, assuring spirit. What is that?

In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the Spirit, breeze, wind, breath of God moved - -

TW+