One of the things that I have said about my retirement is that after a long pastorate, one ends up conducting the funerals of friends way too often. It certainly is the truth that I found myself in the midst of my own grief at the same time I was in the role of walking with someone who was journeying through the grief of the loss of a loved one. I’ve preached sermons at the funerals of people who were my friends. I do think that the stress of doing so much grief work was one of the dynamics of retirement for me. I loved the work that I did and I never actively wanted for it to come to an end, but the shift in my role in the church from that of a pastor to one more focused on teaching has been a positive move for me.

I am sure that there is an active support system for survivors of suicide in this area, but I have not become involved. I have not even checked out the organizations of survivors of suicide. Although I felt called to the work of suicide response, I have not ben sad to leave that work behind for now. I only realized after I stopped being on call for suicide response that I understood how much of a toll that work was taking.

On the other hand, retirement has not stopped people from dying. And as I grow older, the news of deaths in the community is more and more the news of my peers, or members of my age cohort. It is not that uncommon for me to receive the news of the death of someone who belongs to the congregation we served in Rapid City. Now there is a new twist to my grief. I no longer am in the midst of that congregation. I am no longer able to go wit with the widow and family. I am no longer able to attend the funerals. I grieve no less than before, but it is a new way of experiencing grief.

To some extent the Covid-19 pandemic shifted the patterns of grief for our whole society. Especially during the early days of the pandemic, people hesitated to gather. We started live-streaming funeral services so that people could participate from a distance. Having served in the midwest for decades, I can assure you that a funeral without the funeral lunch is an incomplete process. Lots and lots of people had to develop ways of dealing with grief in more private settings. I know, however, that were we still living in Rapid City, I would have figured out ways to be a part of community in the midst of grief. For the most part, I do not watch the livestreams of worship in the congregation we served for so long. However, I do on occasion view a funeral.

These are my people and I am involved in the grief of their deaths even if I no longer carry the title of pastor of that congregation.

Now that I belong to another congregation, I know that I cannot isolate myself from death and the process of grieving.

I sat with a friend at Hospice House last night. The move from a home care setting to Hospice House had come quicker than the family had expected. Suddenly they found themselves in the midst of a busy move from one place to another. By the time I got to Hospice House, the patient was settled into a bed and medications were being adjusted to provide for comfort. Grieving family members, however, were having trouble adjusting to this new place. As it turned out, they needed a little while to take a break, go home, regroup and prepare to spend the night with their dying loved one. They didn’t want to leave their loved one alone, however. I understood. I offered to sit with our friend while family members got a much needed break.

It was not a difficult task. I did what I have done so many times before. I read some beloved passages of scripture out loud. I sang a few hymns that give comfort. I said some familiar prayers. I refreshed the cold washcloth on the forehead. I straightened the covers. I moistened the lips with a swab. I wiped a few tears with a tissue. Mostly I just sat and listened and immersed myself in the experience. I found myself breathing in rhythm with the person in the hospice bed.

Unlike family members for whom the experience of Hospice House is new and strange and maybe even frightening, I’m quite at home at Hospice House. It was my first visit to this particular facility, but I knew how to step into the chapel for personal prayer while nurses performed a procedure. I knew how to talk to the attendants. I wasn’t afraid when eyes failed to focus and breathing patterns shifted. I know my way around a Hospice. It is a comfortable place for me.

We human beings are mortal. We die. It is part of who we are. And while we live, we cannot escape grief. Those whom we love die. And for those of us who are blessed to have lived long enough and experience layer upon layer of love and grief, our grief become a familiar friend. What once felt strange and painful to us does not shed its sting, but does settle into a pattern that we recognize. We understand that we are not losing our minds. We discover that we can endure. We recognize that feelings that overwhelm us. I tell grieving people that we are waterproof - that tears are not the enemy.

I don’t know the sense of timing for my friend’s journey through death. I know I haven’t received a phone call from her family yet. The timing is not in our hands. What might take hours for some can take days for others. Learning that we do not control the timing is part of the process.

I collect another layer of grief. I shed a few more tears. My faith is strengthened. My convictions are unshaken. Love never dies. These are moments we don’t get over. We get through them. And we journey together. I don’t regret the time I have been privileged to sit with the grief and loss of good friends.