From the Rector…
Death is never fun. That may seem like an obvious statement, but it is also a true one. My cousin died this morning after ten months of battling pain and pulmonary issues. Even though she had been fighting this battle for so long, it still came as a shock.
Tressa, my cousin, lived in Maryland. We didn’t often see each other—partly because we hadn’t made the time over the years. Occasionally we would get together, and we kept in touch through texts and phone calls. She would “come” to church at Ascension by worshiping with us online on Sunday mornings. Sometimes she or her husband would call to talk about a sermon.
Three years ago, when I was in Baltimore, we went to see the Orioles play at Camden Yards. We spent a wonderful afternoon cheering for the team and later sat together in a nearby bar, catching up and laughing. We bemoaned the fact that we didn’t get together more often and promised each other we would do better. We didn’t.
When she was hospitalized last January, I called and sent a card. We texted for a while, but as she grew sicker, she stopped responding. I kept sending messages, hoping her husband or mother might read them to her—hoping she would take comfort in knowing others were thinking about her and praying for her.
Recently, she was moved to a step-down unit. I thought that meant she was getting better. I got her new address from her mother and planned to send flowers. Obviously, now I won’t.
Death is hard. So is life. Tressa isn’t suffering anymore, but the rest of us are. We have to go on living. Her parents have already lost their other daughter. Aren’t parents supposed to die before their children? Now they’ve lost both. Her husband put his entire life on hold these past ten months to care for her. What does he go back to now? How does he return to work, to home, after all this time and all that wasted hope? Life is not easy.
In grief, we often put on a brave face, trying to stay strong for those around us. But the pain and sorrow are never far below the surface. When grief is bound up with deep love, it lingers—showing up at the most unexpected times and reminding us of loss and unfinished relationships.
I will miss Tressa—her bright smile, blond hair, and vivacious personality. There were five of us “Burk girls,” and now there are only three. That, too, feels like a loss to grieve. Our family seems to get smaller and smaller, and one day the Burk name will disappear entirely. That thought makes me sad. Tressa’s death reminds me of how final endings really are—again, an obvious but true statement.
The joy is that, as Christians, we believe in the resurrection and that in no way diminishes our deep sorrow when we are parted from our loved ones by death. Jesus, himself, wept at the grave of his friend Lazarus. As the Book of Common Prayer says, “So, while we rejoice that one we love has entered into the nearer presence of our Lord, we sorrow in sympathy with those who mourn.”
May Tressa, and the souls of all the departed, rest in peace.
Light and Life and and a little Lament,
Candice+