I spent last weekend in Massachusetts, first joining my brother and his wife's extended family to celebrate the life of her dad, Ed McHugh, who passed away last summer, and then driving further west -- further and further and further it felt -- in Massachusetts, to drop Kanha off at the Rowe Camp and Conference Center for her two week summer adventure. To be expected, a bit of sadness twinged both days. Saying goodbye to Ed stirred up emotions around my own dad -- they had been great friends for two in-laws, bonding over politics, books, and a good laugh. My fondest memories of Ed also evoke Big Chip -- I enjoyed thoughtful, often wandering and fascinating conversations with both of them, typically spiced with a glass of wine (me), a tumbler of scotch (Ed) or a Pabst Blue Ribbon (Big Chip).
On the other hand, the trip to Kanha's camp was mostly upbeat -- she was excited to have two weeks away from home, plus her school and church buddy Selena was sharing her cabin -- what could be more fun? I was honestly happy for her, yet a bit sad for me. The rhythms of the house change so much when she's not around -- the only thing calling me out of bed in the morning is my desk, the only one to feed at night is Theo, and there's no one around to say, "Good night, I love you." Even in the lovely (not!) pre-teeny, just-about-everything-is-about-me phase she's in, I love my life with her.
Yet I felt not sad, but joyous, on the long drive home as I experienced an incredible moment of grace during the trip, at Ed's memorial service in fact. Eileen, his loquacious, loving and still very Irish wife, even after more than 50 years in the US, had befriended the monks at the Spencer Abbey, a Roman Catholic monastery down the road from her home, during Ed's illness. She would visit their gift shop regularly to buy presents for friends and to receive the gifts she herself needed so much at that time -- an open ear and an empathetic word. Therefore, it made perfect sense to her to return to the abbey when planning Ed's service and ask a monk to lead the celebration. This, it turns out, was a nearly once-in-a-lifetime request -- the Spencer Abbey monks are cloistered and live most of the time in silence and prayer. Leading religious services of any type is not part of their job description, nor is leaving the abbey's premises.
However, incredibly, they agreed, although those of us who know Eileen weren't that surprised -- she's a hard woman to deny when she has something to say. On Saturday morning, the monk arrived just on time in the Abbey's Prius -- one bow they've made to the modern world -- and took his place before the open grave. It was an exceedingly simple service, as Ed would have wanted it, not a church-goer himself -- the monk read a prayer or two mixed in with family remembrances and responsive readings, and he assisted Ed's two grandchildren, Griffin and Meriwether, as they placed the box of ashes in the open hole.
Then, before he closed the service and the bagpiper blew out the final tune, he paused and looked out at us, the thirty or so people who surrounded him. With eyes wet and voice cracking, he told us how impossible it was that he was standing there, having never left the abbey before, and simply how nice it was for him. An awkward silence fell over us all -- such a raw personal moment from a man we didn't know. Yet what an incredible gift, I felt. His feelings rippled out as a prayer -- of thanks for his chance to be in the world, among others, among us, to appreciate a man's life, to appreciate being alive, to experience connection, if even so briefly, on a warm summer's day in a green field that remembers so many who have lived. While we were acknowledging a death, I felt I'd witnessed a birth, of spoken love and gratitude, from an elderly man who lived his life in silence. It made me happy, not sad, and grateful for all the connections, all the love, I have myself.
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