Good Mourning

On most mornings I walk the concrete path along the river. I saunter the familiar course in downtown Portland in pre-dawn hours. The real, determined athletes run past me wearing the latest sporting gear, the newest materials to keep warm or dry. I seldom catch the faces of these sprinting gazelles. I nod to familiar faces that walk at my pace. I also notice intently the azaleas blooming crimson in mid-April and the maple leaves turning golden and sharp red in autumn. The years now have brought a familiar rhythm of walking and reflecting, noticing and being quiet.

There is one consistent moment in my morning sojourn. At the furthest point of my walk after I have crossed the bridges and have come back to the west side, I stroll through a beautifully tended garden. This garden has become my cemetery. Since I have moved nine times in my priesthood, I’ve missed the funerals of so many people I have known and loved in life. This simple year-round garden with paths of concrete and gravel becomes a place where I encounter all the dead. I walk with anticipation to get closer to people I try to let go of in my heart but can never seem to do so. As I step into the varied groupings of Northwest foliage, I talk out loud to my parents, my aunts and uncles and my mentors and saints.

I do not hesitate to speak out loud about what is going on in my life. I shout out to Thomas Merton for guidance in prayer or ask my mother about how to handle a relationship. I sing to Sr. Amadeus who taught me how to use my voice. I pray for help from St. Luke when I prepare a homily or St. Francis to help me let go of possessions and daily irritations. I ask for what I need from people who loved me on earth and from strangers whom I am convinced advocate for me in heaven. Relatives, friends, sinners and saints converge in this finely kept garden in spring or winter, at sunrise or midday.

My daily practice has changed my life and my grieving. As I approach the ground of remembrance, my entire body feels the presence of people I love. My body and spirit have claimed this place like no other to relax into the memory of people and the process of letting go of love. I feel energized when I remember friends from parishes years ago. I know Dorothy could help me with a concern about a friend now who suffers mental anguish. Ann could help me listen to a man I just met with chemical addictions.

In these days of November, we remember from where we have come. Most people in the United States live miles and states away from where home once stood. In the moving across country, multiple job opportunities and the frequency of divorce, we have become so separated from the family we turned to for love and advice.

Our parish communities need to find creative ways to take up the slack on our grieving. This should be one of the parishes’ main missions and priorities. We need to allow the liturgies to speak full volume about death and the end times. We need preachers who hold their own losses with love. We need to be more honest in November days that death is part of life and it is of love that we let go, cherish and remember.

Now is the time to allow parishioners to recall their own paths toward grieving. Many people in the secret of morning light and evening darkness create walkways through loneliness and horrific grief. Let us be the ones who help people shed the darkness of shame and denial, of depression and anger. Collect people who have lost loved ones into a forum of faith and sharing. Research various organizations that help with grief awareness and counseling, public speakers and referrals. Find the secret rituals of mothers who face miscarriages, fathers who lose their sons and priests who let go of their mentors. Teach people to pray through the treacherous paths of pain and loss. The role of the parish must foster the secret gardens of grief and loss. We must create more honesty in the turmoil of keeping our grief secret and suspect.

I discover my good mourning practice every day at first light. I saunter and speak in my garden of memory. My body remembers, my spirit sings and I learn from those who still love me.