As some of you know, John and I lost our dear friend Nancy last week.  As I write this, he and I are putting the finishing touches on the order of service for her memorial, which we’ll celebrate tomorrow.  The work of preparation has been a collaborative labor of love by their priest, their son-in-law (also a priest), and John and me—a veritable embarrassment of clergy!      
    Nancy and Bill had done all the thinking about major parts of the service in advance, so really, there weren’t many details to iron out (thus very little room for any clashes of clergy egos—not that such a thing would ever happen!).  In the Episcopal tradition, the order speaks for itself, with its own tried and true rhythms and trajectory, its own reverent engagement of the essentials of the Spirit.
    As we’ve been preparing the words for our worship tomorrow, I’ve been struck once more by the sacredness, the deep sacramental beauty at the heart of what we do, as church—when we take the time to be with the holy human intent, the covenant of love with the living God, that centers and blesses our words and work.
      I’ve also been acutely aware (and I mean this in the painful, as well as the beautiful sense) of how sacred is the space and time around a person’s passing from this mortal life into whatever lies beyond.  This time around, John and I were honored to keep vigil with Bill, as family members, church friends, and others came and went over the two days Nancy spent in what can only be called active dying.
     We all pretty much stayed in their comfortable, homey room, brought in food, things to read and work on, took turns being on the bed next to Nancy or holding her hand in the chair near the bedside, talking, laughing, telling stories, watching the Olympics, and from time to time, telling her once more we loved her, giving her our words of blessing, comfort, peace, and release.
     Yes, there were tears—of course there were tears.  From time to time one or all of us would need to cry a bit, because of course we didn’t want to be there, we didn’t want our Nancy to be dying.
     But meanwhile, I truly believe her love and graciousness informed the way we were able to be present with her, with each other, and with the love of God bathing, sustaining, opening and blessing us through the time.
     All days are holy days.   All ground is holy ground.  All time is blessed time.  Today, once more, I’m grieving, and grateful to be—
and I look forward to being with you this Sunday, and all our days to come. 

Shalom,
Sarah