This is a sad day.
Our dear friend and colleague Stephanie died last night at 11 pm,
Minnesota time. It was 6 am here in Labastide-Esparbairenque,
in the south of France. I got up a minute
or two after 7; Luisa awoke around 9. I was
typing a poem to Stephanie—one I had started in my journal during the time of our
prayer watch, while Stephanie was in the hospital. People often say, “while she was fighting for
her life”. I don’t know what you do when you are that grievously wounded in the
brain and in the heart. Maybe it wasn’t
fighting she was doing. Maybe Stephanie
was waiting, preparing, releasing.
Stephanie leaves behind three young children and her husband
Paul. Her middle name was Joy, and that
name was her. Full of wit and energy, a
great sense of humor, a very generous heart.
A heart that failed, despite the best offices of her doctors and nurses
and other caregivers.
She died in Abbott Hospital, just a few short blocks from
our church. Had we been in Minnesota, we
would have been over there visiting her and visiting Paul. Maybe we would have volunteered to help with
the kids. What one can “do” in those
situations is very limited. But we would
have loved to “be” with Stephanie in her woundedness, and with Paul in his
worry and sorrow and hope.
We often say in the church—when we can’t be physically
present—that “we will be with you in Spirit”, or “we will be with you in prayer”. We were with Stephanie in prayer this last
week, in the midst of the incredible beauty and joy of being here and being on
sabbatical. As for the Spirit, on this
day, I can sense, but I do not comprehend where the Spirit is in this
grief. Were all the prayers of all the
people who love Stephanie for naught? Is
there some cry that God has not, cannot hear?
I imagine that this will not be the hardest day for
Paul. There is the shock that overcomes
everything. The suddenness of death that
overwhelms, even when you have known that it may come. There are details to be
worked out, the children to be loved, loved, loved. There will be many prayers, many people to
help; perhaps food brought to the house, offers of childcare and errands, calls
to family. The hardest days—when that
is all gone, when there is nothing but the emptiness—they are coming. Oh, dear
Paul. Oh, dear Stephanie.
I believe in the communion of saints. I believe in the resurrection from the dead
and the life everlasting. Oh God, help
my unbelief! Your perpetual light shines
on Stephanie right now, right eternally.
Give us a glimpse of that, of the peace that can surpass.
In this little village, the town bell rings once on the half
hour, and then rings the number of hours as each hour ends and a new one
begins. It just rang twice. In a few seconds, it will ring twice again—I guess
to help those who heard the bell the first time but didn’t count the
hours.
No more counting for Stephanie. No more accumulating. Her life was a blessing. Her life is a gift. But this, this incredible pain.
I usually end my blog posts with “Be Justice. Be Beauty” and
then “be” something else I’ve written about.
Today, please be…I don’t know, just be.
Be in love, be alive, be joy, for this loss of joy.
Patrick
