​Time heals all wounds.
Until it doesn’t.
People who are grieving are often “encouraged” with the idea that their pain will be lessened with the passing of time. Following this reasoning, it would seem that after a few years (or decades) the pain of loss will cease to exist.
That has not been the experience of the folks I know. Although the passage of time can soften the sharp and shrieking grief that comes right after a loss, it rarely diminishes it altogether. 
The common belief is that the first year is the hardest, but sorrow lasts far beyond the 12 month deadline. The first year is remarkable in its ability to keep the presence of the deceased foremost in our minds. We celebrate the first birthday without them while their memory touches everything about the date. The first Christmas, the first anniversary, the first summer barbeque can all strip our emotions bare and remind us poignantly of the loss.
It is true that loss becomes more bearable with the passage of time, but at any time on the journey, loss can hit us with the wallop of a major league fastball. Even a dozen years after a death all it takes is a song or a photo or a special date on the calendar to take us right back to the pain. Before her death in her late 80’s my mother could still be brought to tears by the loss of her younger sister in childhood. Now my mom was one of 11 children, so to the outside observer, the loss of one child may not seem like a tragedy of epic proportions, but she and her siblings never fully got over the loss of their little sister to childhood illness. 
One of the hardest parts about loss is that life goes on without the one who has died. I have sat with newly grieving families and shared with them the disbelief and shock that come from watching the rest of the world go on as if nothing has changed. It seems particularly cruel that folks are still grocery shopping or falling in love or watching the Super Bowl when everything in your world is crashing down around you.
The other side of that coin is the guilt that can come when everyday life comes creeping back for those living with a loss. The first time you laugh at a sitcom, or enjoy a meal, or go a whole day without crying can seem like a betrayal of the one who died and an affront to the immensity of the loss. How can you enjoy a margarita and a burrito platter when the love of your life is no longer by your side. To go on living feels like a betrayal.
Luckily, even with the most tragic of losses, life provides a softening, if not a permanent relief. Minutes turn into hours turn into days when the hole in your heart is not the all encompassing focus of your day. Babies are born, meals are shared, new memories are made and savored. The absence of the one that we lost becomes a sweet reminder of the brevity of life rather than the constant chilling pain of grief.
It never goes away entirely though. In time, reminders that formerly cut us to the core become sweet touchstones that assure us of the presence of love in our lives. The flashes of memory come less frequently and the pain that accompanies them becomes less acute. 
There is no hiding from loss. To live and to love means to lose. If we could wave a magic wand and make the pain of loss disappear, I doubt that many would do it because it would mean denying the love in the lost relationship. But we can survive loss because the love eventually overrides the pain allowing us to go on and to make new connections; connections that we risk even though they may lead to more loss. And that is the ultimate tribute to those that we have loved and lost; the gift of loving again, of loving still, of loving through death.

Keep your fork! There could be dessert.
When I worked at funeral homes, we sometimes buried people with a fork in their pocket. This practice recalls a story that says that the best words you can hear at the end of dinner are “keep your fork!”. It means that good, sweet things are coming up and I am really hoping that if there is a heaven, dessert is served at every meal.
We have seen a myriad of other paraphernalia tucked into caskets with the deceased. At a funeral, just last week, a cutie-patootie great grandchild was on her way to the casket with a picture that she had labored over during her great grandfather’s visitation. I assumed that she wanted to put it in the casket, but she only wanted to “show” it to Papi, but wanted to “gift” it to Nana with a kiss and a big hug.  Even though this tyke was tiny, the comfort that she brought to a woman burying her husband of 60 years was profound, and to see a three year old offer compassion so graciously was heartwarming. Sometimes the most powerful emotions that you witness are contained within the simplest of gestures 
What you see when you go to an open casket viewing has changed a bit also. Although the dignified suit and tie option is always appropriate, we have seen a rise of more casual attire. Lots of Packer sweat shirts.
 Lots. 
We always ask a family to bring in a whole set of clothing right down to under things and footwear if they wish. There is something very comforting about seeing someone in their favorite worn out blue jeans and that familiar brown sweater that they wore when the house was chilly in the morning. 
Of course, there are always folks who take casual a little too far. I may have mentioned previously the gentleman whose wish was to be buried “naked as the day he was born”.  Luckily his family, who tried very hard to honor his last wish, allowed us to drape him strategically in a lovely bed sheet toga-style for the private “family-only” visitation and he both got his wish and didn’t scar any psyches in the meantime.
Sometimes funeral directors disagree with what should be left in the casket before cremation or burial. I will never forget the two sons who put their father’s considerable collection of military medals in the casket with him. They also included a long, shiny ceremonial sabre with an inscription honoring the deceased. Just before the casket was to be closed and buried, I asked the men if they were sure they wanted to let go of those precious mementos. Their reasoning was that those things were earned by their father and meant the most to him. They felt more comfortable knowing that those awards were preserved and would never endure the ignominious fate of being purchased at the Salvation Army as an accessory to a Halloween costume.
And there are some things that are left in caskets that cannot be explained. A few weeks ago, I was putting some objects in the casket from a bag the family had brought in with the deceased’s clothing. There was a blanket, a toy shovel, a hat, and a small white tooth brush. Hundreds of people went by the casket at the visitation that night. The next morning as the casket was opened for the funeral service the wife of the deceased said to me “I just wanted to ask you. What is the symbolism of the toothbrush?” I was appalled. “You mean YOU didn’t include the toothbrush with his mementos? I am SO sorry!” Turns out the toothbrush was one of those hotel ones that happened to be in the bag with the clothes for the funeral. I quickly removed the toothbrush and replaced it with a fork, because who knows? There could be dessert!

​Horrible people die too.
There is something about a person’s recent demise that imbues them with positive attributes not necessarily accurate during their lives. The woman who made every meal in the microwave your whole childhood is lovingly eulogized as “the best cook in the world”. Or the man who screamed at you the night before your driver’s test for changing lanes without checking your blind spot being remembered as “the most patient dad ever”.
These little white lies are what transpire when someone we love dies. Their impact on us is so intense during the time following their passing, that our memories are softened and magnified by love.
Occasionally though, someone really heinous dies. Maybe it’s a murderer, or a famous world leader known for atrocities. More often though, it is someone we know, maybe someone in our family. For whatever reason, a toxicity surrounds this person and the fact that they have died brings you not grief, but closure.
The Rev. Dr. Dudley Riggle in his work with grievers, tells a story about his time as a chaplain. Upon attempting to comfort a recently widowed woman, he was met with a half-smile and the remark “Tonight, for the first night in 40 years I won’t have to worry about being raped in my own bed.” 
Many truths come out after a person has died and these new truths can shatter what we thought about our own lives. When the difficult stuff comes out after the person has died, the survivors are left holding some heavy baggage. (It’s mostly full of anger, tears and curse words!) 
Sometimes a person dies who we loved, but circumstances made it difficult for us to mourn. A few years ago, a friend lost his father in a brutal robbery attempt that went violently wrong. During the course of the investigation and eventual trial, it was discovered that my friend’s sibling had a lifestyle that invited violence, drug abuse and mental illness into their lives. My friend’s father was targeted and killed because of his sibling. Recently when the sibling died, my friend mourned the child that he had grown up with, but not the person who had contributed to their father’s death.
In the “olden days” (defined as any time from 20 years before I was born and before), family secrets were never revealed, even after death. Many cases of abuse, assault, infidelity, alcoholism, drug addiction, mental illness and adoption were covered up to “protect the family name” and the “reputation” of the deceased. 
In our high tech times though, with genealogy so popular and DNA testing kits so prevalent, we are often presented with facts which at one time would have remained hidden. You read stories all the time about people who just want to find out if they’re really Irish or Italian, and end up seeing that they have siblings that no one knew about?! And although open adoptions are common now, there was a time when a person could go to their grave never guessing that they were adopted.
It is true that every death diminishes the world a little bit, but there are certain deaths that bring only relief. Each of us has peccadillos or peculiarities; things we might not want touted (or even referred to obliquely!) at our memorial services, but mostly our truth is well within the range of “normal, loving, imperfect human”. 
I once met a woman who was holding the hand of her deceased mom. I asked if the woman had been sick for long and the daughter told me that her mom had been a particularly abusive and sadistic parent and that she hadn’t seen her in 15 years; had cut off all contact. She then smoothed her mother’s hair and said a silent goodbye with tears running down her face, and I understood.
Because horrible people die too.

“We’re gonna be friends forever!”
I spoke these words to my friend Lois the first time I visited her home. She had grown up on a farm with her seven siblings and had developed a real talent for baking. On this day we went to her house and she asked me to sample a new recipe she was trying. It was a Ho Ho cake. A giant Ho Ho with cream filling and chocolate ganache spread all over it. It was the best thing I had ever put in my mouth. “We’re gonna be friends forever” I quipped with my mouth full of chocolate. That was the start of a 35 year friendship.
Lois and I were very different. She grew up on a working dairy farm and I grew up in the city. I went to college, but Lois was imbued with remarkable common sense and the best work ethic I had ever seen. I had one sibling; she had two brothers and five sisters.
She was the hardest worker I ever met. Now I have my own talents and gifts, but most of the time I am useless. I am the person at an event who can’t figure out how to help or what to do, but Lois was like a whirlwind. She was the person that you wanted at a party or any large event.  She was always the first to arrive with food and the last one to leave once all the dishes were done. She did it all with a smile on her face (and often a rum and diet coke next to the sink!)
When my mom passed away, Lois and her family provided all of the desserts for the funeral luncheon. I’m not talking store-bought cookies, I’m talking oodles of homemade treats baked with love! Everyone present had a dessert plate that featured at least three of these delicacies.
When one of my children was hospitalized for a month, Lois was the first one to volunteer to make sure my other child was busy and cared for. She was the first one to visit me and take me to lunch. Hers was the first shoulder I cried on, first with sorrow and later with relief.
Hers was always the first Christmas card to arrive and the first birthday gift that you opened. She loved sentimental things. I have wooden signs and knick knacks all over my house that were gifts from her. All of them tout the special love and bond between friends, like “A friend is someone who knows who you are and loves you anyway”.
As the years went on, we became part of each others’ families. I officiated at more than half a dozen weddings and spoke or sang at nearly as many funerals for her large clan. I often thought of the first time I saw her. I was just out of college applying for a job where she worked as a waitress. I sat in a back booth, filling out my application while Lois waited on a table of four just behind me. The customers were done with their meal and she was asking about dessert. With her natural gift of gab (and the exemplary gift of salesmanship that made her such an extraordinary waitress), she talked about learning baking with her sisters at the family farm. She extolled the wonders of the restaurant's dessert offerings and not surprisingly, everyone at the table ordered pie! (She could do the same with appetizers and rounds of drinks. You always spent more than you intended when Lois was your server, but you never regretted it.)
In 2020, right at the start of the pandemic, Lois passed away in her sleep, just a few weeks short of her 57th birthday. When her husband called to tell me, I could not even process the information. Because of the COVID-19 virus, a funeral service for Lois that normally would have had hundreds of friends and family members in attendance was a very small somber affair with only immediate family members and a video camera recording as we honored her. We will celebrate her life in a few months when the world returns to our new normal, but it will not be the same as coming together immediately in shock and grief and comforting one another over a shared loss.
When I leave my house to mingle with the outside world again, I will be happy, but it won’t be the same without Lois. We started out as single gals and went through two marriages (one each) and the birth of four sons (two each) all the way through the aches and pains of middle age (many each).  I wasn’t done being friends with Lois. I thought we would have more time. So I guess in a way, we were friends forever.

​We lost our oldest friend.
She was not the friend whom I had known the longest, but my oldest by far.
B. turned 100 a few months ago. I had known her for over 20 years as we belonged to the same UU church. When she passed away, it wasn’t that any of us were shocked (did I mention she was 100?!) but the feeling of loss was palpable and painful nonetheless.
It is easy to understand grief around a loss that comes early or tragically or violently. Why then is our grief not ameliorated by extreme old age or serious and debilitating illness?
Part of the reason is that no matter how much we may anticipate it, losing someone to death is never easy. We can voice the usual platitudes about someone being in a better place, or coming to the end of their suffering, but those are only reasons why we feel we shouldn’t be sad, rather than reasons why we are not.
When someone dies at an advanced age, it is common that we say goodbye to them a little bit at a time. When my mother first started showing signs of dementia, we said farewell to the discussions about current affairs that we loved. When she had a stroke, we were forced to say goodbye to the reader who devoured books and to the grandmother who remembered your interests well enough to ask about them specifically. When her health and mobility became severely limited, we were forced to part with the lunch partner who loved to eat at restaurants and have a good glass of red wine.
And so we said goodbye to our friend B. many times and in many ways. We said goodbye to her as a social justice warrior when she could no longer drive herself places. (She and her best friend had been asked to stop delivering “Meals on Wheels” when they were so much older than any of the people they were visiting that it seemed absurd!) We said goodbye to her as a church leader as she was able to attend less and less frequently.
Whenever she came though, you could tell that she was energized by the community. As in most faith communities, people are asked to stand only “as they are able” and B. had felt comfortable staying seated for quite some time. Less than a year before her passing, I looked over during one of the more rousing and meaningful hymns, and saw B. up on her feet singing with all her soul. The road to the end of life has many hills and valleys we found.
After her 100th birthday, B. started to decline. Still living in her own home, she was the gracious recipient of palliative and hospice care. Her friends from church were fortunate that her family and her caregivers were so sensitive to our need to continue to have B. as an integral part of our congregation. It would have been within their rights to refuse access to this proud and private woman during the days of her decline. But we were welcomed to be part of the circle of people who were taking their gradual leave of her presence.
When it looked like the end was coming, a small group of us visited B. and sang for her; mostly “churchy” inspirational songs and also some old standards from back in the day. It was peaceful and calming for her and for us. When we had finished, she piped in with the song that she had always sung lovingly to her children and grandchildren;  “Button up your overcoat, when the wind is free. Take good care of yourself, you belong to me.”  We all gave and received the gift of song and connection. We ministered and were ministered to. We said goodbye.
She passed away about a week later. And it still hurt. Even though we were expecting it. Even though we knew she was going to die. Even though she was 100. Because she was our oldest friend.

When does the story end?
Last weekend I sat and stared at my phone for two and a half hours, watching the livestream of a funeral for a woman I had never met. (No, this is NOT what funeral professionals usually do for fun!)
Denny Davidoff had been the ultimate UU church lady, active in social justice, anti-racism, and for over 50 years, almost every aspect of our shared religious association. I was just a “fan” of her work and works over the years, and wanted to hear more of her story.
The memorial service had Denny written all over it. Hand chosen clergy members, family, business colleagues, and people with whom she had done transformative work offered words of comfort and healing. There was original music performed by a choir of people who knew her, and her sons and grandchildren were exceptionally eloquent. There was much laughter, many, many tears, and a sacred atmosphere of joy and peace.
When the clergy member that she had chosen to give the homily got up, (near the end of a two and a half hour funeral!) I admit I was skeptical of what he could add to what had already been said so well (and by so many!)
His major point, surprisingly, was that Denny had not achieved many of the goals for which she had labored so arduously. Racism still exists, he pointed out. Many projects that Denny had spearheaded and championed were still works in progress. Intolerance, injustice, and unkindness are still evident in our world.
And then he revealed the good news. The good news was that Denny’s vision and goals had  NOT been compromised by the inconvenient circumstance of her being dead. He pointed to the seeds of love and the roots of public service that she had sown in every corner of her life. From her beloved grandchildren with their tales of her eccentricities, to the hundreds of congregations that grew through her nurturing support, to the singular person watching on her phone who had never met Denny, but had been changed by the force of her life, we had all been part of her story.
When my mom passed away, the mantle of preserving and describing her life in her obituary and during her eulogy lay heavy on my shoulders. As anyone who has lost someone they love, I wanted to honor her in a way that would be succinct and meaningful. 
  Now, not everyone should have a funeral that lasts for hours, (in fact I would advise against it!), but everyone deserves to have their story told and every life’s end should be marked in some way. 
In the Quaker tradition, people sit quietly in a circle, and only speak or not speak as they are moved. Some funerals are opened for people to share stories, and often a special person or two is invited to share; some funerals focus on the spiritual aspects through ancient meaningful ritual, and some are little more than a mention in the local obituaries that a very private person has died. 
There can be as much dignity in a simple clink of beer bottles over the first campfire of the year in someone’s memory, as there can be at a crowded gravesite. The important thing is that the end of the life of another human should in some way be set apart consciously and with meaning. One of the privileges of helping families when a death occurs, is to be present for so many of these precious and sacred moments. 
No one can sum up the entirety of a life in one ceremony, or obituary or eulogy. The important part is to recognize the significance of that person’s life in the bigger story of all our lives together. Each person’s story has value and worth.
As the wise minister at Denny's funeral told us, the bad news is that the story is unfinished. The good news is that the story never ends.