Fairhaven Blog

Since Fairhaven is kicking off the Oliver Halsell Caregiver Award this week, I wanted to talk a little bit about caregivers and grief.

You do not have to be related to someone to feel grief when they die nor does the person have to be dead for you to feel grief. If you are a caregiver for someone with a terminal illness or you know someone who has been diagnosed with one, you know that the person will be gone soon. Even though they may still be with you, you begin to feel the effects of grief and loss. Mourning your loss before the person is actually gone is common.

On the Family Caregiver Alliance's website (caregiver.org), I found some very interesting information .

If you are the primary caregiver of someone you love, this experience can affect every aspect of your life for some time. It is natural to grieve the death of a loved one before, during and after the actual time of their passing. The process of accepting the unacceptable is what grieving is all about.

Anticipatory Grief

If someone has had a prolonged illness or serious memory impairment, family members may begin grieving the loss of the person's "former self" long before the time of death. This is sometimes referred to as "anticipatory grief." Anticipating the loss, knowing what is coming, can be just as painful as losing a life. Family members may experience guilt or shame for "wishing it were over" or seeing their loved one as already "gone" intellectually. It is important to recognize these feelings as normal. Ultimately, anticipatory grief is a way of allowing us to prepare emotionally for the inevitable. Preparing for the death of a loved one can allow family members to contemplate and clear unresolved issues and seek out the support of spiritual advisors, family and friends. And, depending on the impaired person's intellectual capacity, this can be a time to identify your loved one's wishes for burial and funeral arrangements.

We already know the benefits of pre-planning. Now there is an additional reason to do this. It can have a positive affect on your grief process to know that these arrangements are taken care of. Helping with the process of pre-planning also helps you to accept the inevitable. Families with loved ones in assisted living often rely on social workers and other caregivers to help them to know what to do when their loved one passes. Many caregivers offer referrals to funeral homes so families can pre-plan for their loved one.

At Fairhaven we have PR staff who do outreach to assisted living care facilities to talk about the benefits of pre-planning. The staff gives seminars to educate caregivers and family members about what they can expect when a loved one dies. We also have pre-planning counselors who visit these facilities to help families with their pre-arrangements. Our staff is quite knowledgeable about the benefits to the living of pre-planning for those who are ill, not the least of which is related to the grief they feel at having to make those arrangements.

Grief affects everyone at some time in their life. Sometimes the grief is stronger than we anticipate or occurs when we least expect it as in the case of a caregiver whose charge has not yet passed. If you are a caregiver who is experiencing feelings of loss and grief, don't be afraid to reach out for help. There are links to grief support groups on Fairhaven's website and the Family Caregiver Alliance website is filled with resources and information to help you through this time of loss. I wish I had had these resources when I was caring for my ill parents twenty-five years ago. It would have made a rough time much more bearable.

Just remember that you're not alone, help is out there and there are lots of things you can do to get through the grief process whether your loved one or your charge has passed or not. I hope this information and these links help you to find your way through your grief and loss.

~

The Oliver Halsell Caregiver Award pays tribute to Orange County caregivers whose kindness and dedication to serving others is inspirational. These courageous individuals go above and beyond their job description to serve with the utmost care and compassion. Fairhaven’s Oliver Halsell Caregiver Award winners come from many fields including private care, hospice, social work, counseling, assisted living, nursing, therapy and volunteer work. For more information, please visit Fairhaven Memorial Park's website under Community - Caregiver Award.

Charity Gallardo, Blog Coordinator – Charity has been the Network Administrator for the Fairhaven Family Group for 13 years. When she’s not assisting staff with their computer issues, she is a published author of romance novels, an award winning cover artist and a blogger. 

Today's post is by Fairhaven Service Director Kristina Kindred. Every day, Kristina is on the front lines assisting families with their services and helping them within that context with whatever they may need to ease the loss of their loved one. She sees firsthand how grief affects people and how what we do at Fairhaven helps them through a difficult time. She truly understands and exemplifies Fairhaven's core values of integrity, fairness, compassion and excellence and applies them when working with families every day. ~ Charity Gallardo, Blog Coordinator

In the almost eleven years that I have been a licensed Embalmer and Funeral Service Director with Fairhaven Memorial Park and Mortuary, I have met hundreds of people at a very difficult transitional time in their lives. Through these experiences, I developed my own personal mission statement when working with grieving families. As a Service Director, I strive to bring comfort and closure to my families by facilitating the funeral ceremony in a professional and thorough manner. I do this through coordinating and accommodating all types of funeral traditions with a heart and attitude of service.

Amongst the Directors, we have a saying, “Funerals are just like weddings… we only have one opportunity to make it perfect." In reality, we can get married many times, but usually we are only buried once as funerals are a one time affair. Creating the perfect service entails a few key areas that the Service Director must be diligent about.

Meeting with the Family Service Counselor to go over the families’ expectations and basic service details in regards to the funeral arrangement is always our first priority. We often discuss such aspects as the proper religious affiliation and funeral set-up, musical selections for preludes and postludes, whether there will be live music or pre-recorded cd, soloists or bagpipers. Will there be a DVD memorial presentation or video taping of the ceremony? Other important details that impact the flow of the service are Military Honors, memorabilia displays, guest speakers, reception invitations and processionals. All these things must be managed and coordinated in order for the service to run smoothly. Then there are the minute details of visiting the gravesite prior to the service to determine the best route and proper placement of floral tributes.

Each of these things may seem insignificant by themselves, but if you don’t properly identify ALL of the aspects of each service, and any single detail is out of whack, the family may be unintentionally dismayed. In this respect, all my efforts come down to making certain that each of my families are pleased with the ceremony that they have designed to honor their loved one and in turn helping them along their grief process.

Upon my first meeting with the family, I try to express my concern and offer my support. It’s common to feel awkward when trying to comfort those who are grieving. Many times it is difficult to find the right words, even in my position. I have often been asked by guests attending a funeral, “What is the right thing to say to the family?” I’ve learned that there is nothing we can say to make it all better; we can only be present to offer our support, a kind word or a sweet memory.

Not knowing the deceased or the family personally may seem problematic at first look but in all honesty, I feel as though it has been much more difficult to keep up professional appearances when directing a service for someone I know. We are not robots and on many occasions I have shed a tear during services for those that I have not known. My goal is always to make my family comfortable and I have found that the best way to accomplish this is by going over the order of service with the main family contact before the guests begin arriving. This way, I can make any necessary changes and put our family at ease. Knowing the series of events and how they are going to happen is the best way to relieve the stress associated with the planning and execution of the funeral ceremony.

After quickly breaking down the service it is important to ask the family if there is anything else we can do for them. I offer simple things like a bottle of water, a box of tissues or give out the location of the restroom facilities. These simple gestures can easily make an enormous difference to someone experiencing the rollercoaster of emotions associated with the grief process.

 Helping our families to arrange the memorabilia displays that have become so popular in the last few years is probably the highlight of my work. Looking through the photo collages and memorial DVD presentations along with the particular items that the family has selected to memorialize their beloved helps us to get to know our guest of honor in a small way. On occasion, these items have been unusual and extremely large. We have displayed giant 10 foot tall framed collage of decades old love letters from the World War I era. I’ve helped to guide a top fuel dragster through the side doors of our chapel to display in front of the casket. But the largest and most memorable item I have personally assisted in displaying had to be an entire life size hang glider inside of our Waverley Chapel. The hang glider was the epitome of their loved one’s adventurous life. It was very important for it to be present at the service so measurements were taken, logistics discussed and a team of friends carried in and re-built the hang glider inside our chapel. All of the guests were shocked and amazed to see the actual glider in all of its glory right in front of them.

At the conclusion of this service, as the Director, I had to go forward to the podium to make several important announcements and begin the dismissal. The wing of the glider protruded into the sound booth and essentially blockaded me inside this area. There was no way around it as I needed to operate the DVD system to show a memorial video which included wonderful home videos of the adventurer and hang glider in flight.

When the time came to make the necessary announcements, in front of an overflowing crowd of more than two hundred attendees, I got down on my hands and knees and crawled underneath the wing of the hang glider with as much dignity as I could muster. I stood up and paused to re-adjust my jacket and unexpectedly received a raucous round of applause for my efforts. During the dismissal, many of the guests sought me out to express their appreciation and how much it meant to them to be a part of such an unforgettable memorial service for their friend and loved one. After the glider had been taken apart and hauled away, and all the guests had departed, the family expressed to me how pleased they were with all that we had done for them and thanked me with hugs all around.

Sometimes I still gauge the satisfaction of my families on whether they want to hug me or not. I know not all folks are huggers and many of my friends will tell you that I am not considered a “hugger”, but in our line of work, often a hug is the simplest expression of support or gratitude. Essentially, doing my job to the best of my abilities by creating the perfect service is the way I can make an impact in the lives of our families and help them along their journey through the grief process.

For the first time in our continuing series on Grief, Faith and Culture, we touch on culture. In a world where Don't Ask Don't Tell has been repealed, where same sex marriage is legal in more states every year, and where being HIV+ is no longer a death sentence, the GLBT community has become a force for change. Our guest blogger today is a renowned author and his story is a touching memoir to a friend who died of AIDS. The loss of his friend inspired Rick Reed to write a romance called Caregiver and today's article gives us a peek inside the GLBT culture which spent two decades bowed beneath the weight of a death sentence called AIDS. ~ Charity Gallardo, Blog Coordinator

I’m driving north on Florida State Route 75. It’s August and the flat land stretching out on either side of the highway looks baked. The slash pines, palms, and cypress trees stand like stalwart sentinels against the blistering sun: brave.

The car hums along, the whirr of the air conditioning compressor keeping me company. I’m too jazzed to listen to music.

I’m on my way to a date with Jim. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him, since he moved from the Tampa Bay area up north to Raiford, which is a good three hours away. I can’t blame Jim for the move (it wasn’t his choice), but it’s been hard not being able to see him the past month. Oh sure, we’ve written and Jim’s a great one for letters, especially since he can draw hilarious caricatures of the people he’s meeting in his new home.

But there’s a disturbing edge to his letters, too, and I know some of these people have been less than kind to Jim. The name-calling, for one thing, breaks my heart. But thank God Jim has a sense of humor, otherwise I don’t know how he’d get through each day.

I know he’s been hanging on for this date, which we’ve had planned for a while.

Finally, an afternoon with Jim. I didn’t know, four months ago, that I would grow to love him so quickly.

I drive on, the broad expanses of rough grass and hearty trees being replaced every so often by strip malls and towns with names like Ocala. The pavement shimmers before me in the heat. My tires hum. An armadillo hurries alongside the road. A mosquito splats against the windshield, leaving a swath of blood.

***

I remember the first time I met Jim. It was another blistering summer day (funny how in my memories of the two years I lived in Florida, it’s always summer, even when the memory took place in December or February). Jim and I had been set up and these kinds of dates always put me on edge: they never worked out.

When Jim answered the door, I was sure that this set-up date would work out like all the others: completely inappropriate. Other people never seemed to have the capacity to pick someone out for myself that I would choose on my own.

And this guy who opened the door immediately put me on my guard. I mean, I enjoy a good drag show at the local bar as much as the next guy, but here in Brandon, Florida (a suburb of Tampa, full of kids, trimmed lawns, and swimming pools), a smart little black dress and pearls just seemed out of place, especially on a very handsome blond man with great blue eyes and a nice, tight build.

But there was Jim, all smiles and beckoning me to come inside. I went into the little bungalow he lived in with a roommate (who was at work). The place was typical Florida, one-story, stucco, with a schefflera bush in the front yard, and that peculiar, tougher-than-nails, fire-ant infested grass on the front lawn. Inside, pastel walls and beige furniture completed the picture. The Golden Girls could have used the place for a set.

And there was Jim, smiling at me in his sensible matron’s outfit and just putting the finish creases on a little ironing he was doing just before I rang the bell. The whole scene made me think of a cross between June Cleaver and RuPaul.

I wasn’t sure what to say. But that really didn’t matter, because Jim was more than ready to take over (once he’d made certain I had a fruity cocktail in my hand, even though it wasn’t yet noon), telling me all about his recent move down here from Chicago (I had the same story to tell, but I wasn’t to learn until much later how very different our respective moves to the sunshine state were), his love for Barbra (need I add a last name here?), and how his health was improving under the abundant Florida sun.

I learned fast that day that clothes don’t always make the man and that Jim would turn out to be one of the bravest men I’d ever met.

***

It’s been a long drive and I’m glad to finally be pulling up in front of Jim’s new home. Raiford, Florida is north central Florida…typical of the state, but not the kind of look one usually associates with Florida (white sand beaches, aquamarine waters, palm trees swaying in the salty breeze): Raiford is kind of grim and parched looking, especially the wide open spaces where Jim’s new home sits. It’s surrounded by dry brown grass…stretching infinitely to a blazing blue sky, where the sun beats down, relentless.

A tall fence surrounds Jim’s new home, with no nod to adornment (Jim, with his graphic design background and his love for the visual arts, I’m sure, did not approve). This fence was made of foreboding chain link and twice the height of a good-sized man, topped with razor-sharp circles of barbed wire. The only thing that looks halfway decent is the curving arch over the entrance drive and the stone monument just beside it. The arch tells visitors, in curving steel, that this is the Florida State Prison. The stone monument spells it out further: Department of Corrections, Florida State Prison.

This is where they send the big boys: the felons.

I can’t imagine Jim inside. He’s been hanging on for our date.

I can’t wait to see him.

***

When Jim and I went on our first date (after our getting-acquainted morning cocktail hour at his house) we went to Ft. DeSoto beach, a beautiful stretch of white sand just off of St. Petersburg Beach. Because it’s in a state park, the beach is backed up not by high-rises with balconies overlooking the Gulf of Mexico, but with a view that nature intended. Instead of bricks and mortar (and the attendant Florida tourists), Ft. DeSoto beach has only sand dunes, sea grass, and mangroves as a backdrop. It’s another blazing hot day and I’ve brought lunch for Jim and me (with a thermos full of mai tais…Jim’s favorite) and we spend the entire afternoon listening to the waves roll in and watching a matronly pair wade along the shoreline, net bags in hand, collecting starfish and shells.

Jim tells me about the last job he had before he went on this extended period of unemployment and how he worked as a graphic designer. He tells me about what led to his dismissal: picking up a stranger one night and bringing him back to his workplace.

Jim was like that: a little imp, unable to play by the rules.

Life has a way of biting those who go against its conventions by biting them in the rear.

***

Getting into the Florida State Prison is a lot easier than getting out, but there are some obstacles. In order to arrange for my date with Jim, I had to go through the chaplain, who put me on the very short list of visitors who could come and visit him (not that there was a long list of admirers waiting to be put on that list; only Jim’s family so far had come to check him out in his new digs—and they had made the trip all the way from Downer’s Grove, Illinois). Once inside the prison, I had to go through an anteroom, where I had to sign in and then subject myself to being frisked, right down to removing my boots to ensure I wasn’t securing a file in the heel or something. I understood the precautions, silly as they were. Yet Jim was in no shape to escape, even if I had somehow managed to smuggle in everything he would need to slip through Raiford’s well-guarded walls.

Security wasn’t as tight for my last couple of dates with Jim, which had taken place at the Hillsborough County Jail. There, things weren’t as grim, or as lonely. I would line up with a whole room full of chattering visitors, get checked in, and then be off to converse with Jim through a wall of Plexiglas, under the admiring eyes of some of the other inmates. Jealousy is such a petty thing, and particularly annoying when you’re trying to have an intimate moment with your date.

But that was before Jim’s case was adjudicated and they sent him north, to the state prison. That was before Jim began to get really sick.

***

Now, a guard leads me down a colorless hallway to the prison infirmary. I know this will be my last date with Jim and it’s hard not to recall all the laughs we shared before he was caught (he had violated his parole in Illinois, where he had been convicted of grand theft auto) at various beaches along the Gulf of Mexico, in Cuban restaurants, just listening to music at my apartment.

It’s also hard not to remember the additional details that brought him here: how, in a fit of depression, he had set fire to his roommate’s house. What did he have to be depressed about, anyway? He was only dying from AIDS (this was in the early 1990s and the drug cocktails that would keep many of his brethren living full lives were still on the horizon), isolated, and on the run from the law. Why be sad when he could number his only friends (me) at the number one? Why be sad when my friendship was not borne out of a common love for the arts and sarcastic observations about life, but instead courtesy of the Tampa Aids Network, where I had volunteered to be an AIDS buddy and was assigned to Jim?

I wasn’t sure I wanted to see Jim. He had written me, before he was confined to the infirmary, about how the other inmates taunted him and called him Spot, because of the Kaposi’s sarcoma lesions that covered him from head to toe (and continued, even now, to eat his fragile body and soul alive). I didn’t know what to expect. The last time I had seen him, he was still vibrant, still Jim: a little blond man with a quick smile and bottomless kindness.

I knew he had deteriorated…and I knew it was going to be bad.

***

Jim was alone in the room of the infirmary where they had done, I suppose, what they could to ensure his comfort. Other beds awaited other inmates, with maladies less deadly, I hoped, than Jim’s.

And there he was. Asleep. He looked frail and vulnerable, not at all what you’d imagine if you thought of the terms “convicted felon” or “state pen inmate.” His face, once tanned and vibrant, was covered with purple sores. My Jim had turned into a monster in the short time that had elapsed since we last saw one another.

He turned to me and opened his eyes. At least his eyes, blue as those waters we once sat beside, had stayed the same. It took him a minute or two to recognize me, but when he did, he smiled. I moved close to the bed and took his hand. With my other hand, I touched his forehead, where a fever raced around inside, hot as the air outside these prison walls.

I don’t remember what we talked about on our last date. Probably not much; Jim drifted in and out of sleep while I stood beside him, sometimes even in the middle of a sentence: mine or even his own. He did manage to tell me about his parents’ visit the day before, how his mother had collapsed in grief the moment she saw him.

I wanted this last time of ours together to be meaningful. But what, really, is there to say, at life’s end? I leaned in close and kissed him, my cheek brushing up against one of the lesions. It felt crusty.

The only thing left to say, really, at the end of life, or even the end of a perfect date are three words: “I love you.” Jim whispered back, “I love you, too,” and then he fell asleep.

I crept away.

Jim died the next day. The chaplain very kindly told me, when he called, that he thought Jim had hung on long enough to see me. I hung up the phone and slipped outside to my patio and looked across the surface of the pond just steps away. A wind rippled across the deep green water, making the grass at the water’s edge sway. A white ibis pecked at something along the shore.

I thought of a silly drawing Jim had sent me a couple months ago. It was a colored pencil caricature of a fat middle-aged woman I had written about; she was naked and riding a surfboard. Jim had called it “Amelia’s Hawaiian Adventure.”

The picture made me laugh when all I really wanted to do was cry. But my eyes were dry. Maybe it was just Jim’s influence as he looked down, trying to replace grief with hilarity. I laughed until I was almost breathless and had to sit down, cross-legged, on the concrete.

Finally my laughs turned to sobs and I faced away from the pond and toward the sliding glass doors. The glass was bright with sun and I swore I could see Jim reflected there. He mouthed some words and I strained to read them through my tears. “Glad you could drop by.” I swallowed, containing myself and think: me too, Jim.

Someone else might think our last date was kind of sucky, but for me it was perfect. After all, a perfect date is marked by a timeless connection and an intimacy borne of true love. Maybe I didn’t get the chance to bring you flowers or candy, but this date we had…well, it will be the one that will always stand out in my mind as my best, because I like to think that I sent you off, free, with the words “I love you,” lingering in your mind.

Rick R. Reed is the author of dozens of published novels, novellas, and short stories. He is a two-time EPIC eBook Award winner (for ORIENTATION and THE BLUE MOON CAFE). His work has caught the attention of Unzipped magazine, “The Stephen King of gay horror,”; Lambda Literary, “A writer that doesn’t disappoint,”; and Dark Scribe magazine, “an established brand—perhaps the most reliable contemporary author for thrillers that cross over between the gay fiction market and speculative fiction.” He lives in Seattle.

CAREGIVER is available at Amazon and Dreamspinner Press.

Visit: http://www.rickrreed.com

Follow: http://rickrreedreality.blogspot.com/

Twitter: http://twitter.com/RickRReed

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/RickRReedBooks

Today's guest blogger is a man whose words resonate with tenderness and the tenets of his faith. Caine Das is an ordained Buddhist Monk and, as you will see in this post, he is also a devoted son. His struggles to accept and deal with his mother's illness stretch the limits of his faith while still offering him comfort. In part five of our continuing series on Grief, Faith and Culture, Caine shows us his serenity in the face of coming loss. ~ Charity Gallardo, Blog Coordinator

Disclaimer: The religious information contained in these guest blog posts are the beliefs of the guest blogger and in no way reflect Fairhaven’s endorsement of any particular religion.

"Your mother's cancer has returned and is widespread. It is just a matter of time now." A year before, I heard the same doctor state, "Your mother has a rare and aggressive form of uterine cancer. I will do the surgery and chemo, but best case, we are looking at a five percent chance of long-term survival."

Both times, the doctor touched my shoulder and said, "I am so sorry." As he turned and walked away, tears rolled down my face. How many times in my life had tears flowed? A phone call, "I am sorry Caine, your teacher, he has passed away." Another doctor, many years ago, "The baby is failing to thrive. There is nothing more I can do." These memories and so many more flood my thoughts as I turn and slowly walk down the corridor towards my mother's room.

The son will be the one who tells his Mother the cancer is back. The child will tell the woman the prognosis. She decides to not go without a fight, even while saying how tiring it all is. Her life has not been an easy one. As the weeks pass, comments about how she wants her funeral to be, location of important papers, how no one lives forever mix in with, "I don't feel like I am dying. Not really."

One question comes up that is not exactly a surprise, "Will you be wearing your robes at the receiving of friends?"

I fondly think back to over thirty years ago when she first saw them. Maroon and yellow with a shaved head. "What in God's name are you wearing? Where is your hair?" I had become a Buddhist Monk and my mother was very shocked at the sight. The years have softened her views.

Being a Buddhist Monk led to many discussions on why, where, how, when, would you like to see a doctor? She did love hearing about the places I had traveled, but my beliefs and the fact I was no longer the family religion did worry her so.

At this time of transition, my mind centered on the words of the Buddha. “This existence of ours is as transient as autumn clouds. To watch the birth and death of beings is like looking at the movements of a dance. A lifetime is like a flash of lightning in the sky, rushing by, like a torrent down a steep mountain.” These words carried such tender meaning facing the mortality of my Mother.

Grief comes to all beings, and for all, there is a difference in the depth, width and intensity of the road it becomes. I have seen people move on quickly because it was the only way they could continue, but the sting left its mark. Others, not so. Their grief holds them like a prison. Intervention of loved ones is often necessary to help these people carry on the most simple of tasks, their grief so fixated.

The words 'Impermanence' and 'Equanimity' flow around my grief. Everything changes, nothing is permanent. All the people and places I know will and do change. My friends, my family, myself, all will die. I had always known this but it never became real until I studied the path of the Buddha. The fact that all things were impermanent made suffering all the more a reality.

I recall asking my Teacher one night, "Why do you stare at the stars so much? They are hundreds of light-years away. Everything you are seeing has changed."

He smiled and said, "Caine, you have learned impermanence, but you must embrace equanimity to understand why I look at the stars and smile."

I was a novice Monk then, not even sure if I wanted to stay. I yearned for the peace and firmness of mind my Teacher had. He was compassionate and caring whether things were good or bad. He never wavered. He taught that equanimity was compassion in action and during actions. All things change, suffering will happen because of these changes, yet compassion and love stands in the middle of all changes.

Through the years, grief became more and more of a constant, visiting more often. I faced grief with equanimity, a faith and confidence of being able to stand in the middle with peace and compassion, not judging or saying what if. I looked at what could be done to help.

My Mother said, "Well, are you going to wear your robes?"

I smiled at her just as my Teacher had smiled at the stars.

My Mother just smiled back and said, "Wear the nice ones at least."

"I will Mom, I will."

Caine Das has been a Buddhist Monk for over 30 years. He found peace in the words and teachings of the Buddha and has carried this peace to the world. His mission is simple, to serve others. His website is Reflection of a Buddhist Monk.

When I set out to find a guest blogger to discuss Catholicism, Googling grief and Catholicism brought up the name David P. Deavel. I clicked the links and read some posts and realized that I'd found a gem, a writer who could combine personal experiences with theological information in a post that touched the emotions of readers. When Dave agreed to write for us, I was very excited and today, reading the post, I'm amazed. It's a perfect fit for this series and even if you are not Catholic, if you have lost a loved one, you will feel as if Dave knows just what you've gone through. ~ Charity Gallardo, Blog Coordinator

Disclaimer: The religious information contained in these guest blog posts are the beliefs of the guest blogger and in no way reflect Fairhaven's endorsement of any particular religion.

Catholic Grief: A Circle Unbroken by David Paul Deavel

When I became a Catholic at the age of 23 the topic of grief was not particularly on my mind.  At 23 you still half-believe in your own personal physical immortality (particularly if you are a male).  My conversion came as a result of falling in love with the “symphony” of truth found in the Catholic Church—the paradoxical way in which Catholicism incorporated all the disparate elements of truth found in the rituals and theologies of other forms of Christianity and indeed other religions.  One of my mottos was the great English Catholic writer G. K. Chesterton’s observation, “Catholicism is the trysting place of all truths.”

But when my mother developed cancer a year later I was forced to learn that nowhere is this paradoxical character more evident than in the Catholic approach to death and grief.

This paradoxical nature, Catholics claim, comes directly from the very foundations of Christianity.  Jesus of Nazareth, building upon the preaching of the Hebrew prophecies, proclaims to his audience that the Kingdom of God is both here and now and . . . is coming soon.  His resurrection from the dead is the definitive sign that for human beings, death is no longer the last word.  Various cultures and religions have claimed that the soul survives death, but the Christian claim is startlingly new.  It’s not just that you will exist as a lonely soul floating around in a dark, dank land of the dead, as so many of the ancient civilizations believed.  It’s that you will be given a new and imperishable body.  Your dead body, says St. Paul, echoing Jesus himself, is like a kernel of wheat “buried” in the ground.  The transformation that takes place from seed to plant is like that from an earthly body to a heavenly resurrected body.  In view of this reality, St. Paul writes to the infant Church gathered at the Greek city of Corinth, quoting the Hebrew Prophets Isaiah and Hosea: “’Death is swallowed up in victory.’  ‘O death, where is they victory? O death where is thy sting?’”(I Corinthians 15: 54-5).

And even before that marvelous day of the final Resurrection, it is still true, says St. Paul, that to be “away from the body” is to be “at home with the Lord” (2 Cor. 5:8)—and is thus a good thing.  Thus, one side of the argument, and a strong one at that, echoing down through the centuries, is that death is indeed a good thing, something to be celebrated and not grieved.  The Mass is itself a memorial not just of Christ’s death but also his resurrection.  “We are a resurrection people,” said St. Augustine (354-430) in one of his homilies. The significance of death is that one has entered into the presence of God and is now preparing for the resurrection.

From this side of the picture grief could be seen as something somewhat suspicious, a sign that perhaps one loved the present life more than the heavenly one to come, or perhaps that one loved the deceased more than God himself.  Better to take the attitude of the thirteenth-century saint Francis of Assisi and refer fondly to “Sister Death.”  Yet there was always another side.

St. Paul’s words about death swallowed up in victory were themselves in the context of his own preaching about the completion of the Kingdom of God which Jesus said was both here and coming.  “The last enemy to be destroyed,” St. Paul writes, “is death” (I Cor. 15: 26).  Death is to be destroyed, but unfortunately it isn’t dead yet.  And as it isn’t swallowed up in victory yet, it is still particularly difficult to swallow.  If Catholics profess to experience the reality of Jesus’ resurrection here in this life, we also experience the reality of his death in the deaths of our loved ones.  So grief has a place.  Even if those loved ones “have gone to a better place,” we who are left have not.  And our love for them must enter into the same mysterious sphere as faith—something that we do without the comfort of sight.  Grief is not a sign of superficiality or weakness of faith.  Instead, we mourn in faith because we recognize that the loss is real and deep.

This was no simple theoretical matter, either.  Medieval people were especially attached to the necessity of the imitation of Christ the Lord.  Upon finding his friend Lazarus dead, St. John’s Gospel tells us, “He wept” (John 15:35).  He wept despite the fact that he preached the final resurrection of the dead.  He wept despite the fact that he knew he would raise Lazarus from the dead that day if only to temporarily extend his earthly life.  If Jesus the Lord of Life could grieve, his followers reasoned, then so could they.

Yet if grief was a legitimate reaction to death, it had to be a particular kind of grief.  Writing of the resurrection in another place, St. Paul writes that this reality should affect our reactions to our beloved dead, “that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope” (2 Thessalonians 4:13).  Catholic grief must be shot through with hope of the resurrection of our beloved.

Of course everything I’ve said thus far could probably describe most Christians and their attitudes.   But what I learned when my mother died of cancer at the, by today’s standards, comparatively young age of 63 was that there were several elements of the Catholic approach to grief that were particularly helpful and that made my experience of grieving my mother slightly different from the grief I endured when losing my two grandmothers and a beloved aunt in the few years before Mom died.

First, the distinctive teachings of the Catholic Church, purgatory and the continuing connection of the dead to the living, made a world of difference.  My Protestant friends complain that purgatory denigrates the work of Christ in saving us, making salvation something Christ doesn’t really accomplish, but simply makes possible.  This theological error, they say, results in a psychological block to our grief:  we can’t say that our loved ones’ suffering is over and thus we cannot really grieve properly since they aren’t really in a better place.  But my friends mistake the theological nature of purgatory.  It is simply the continuing work of Christ in sanctifying (making holy) people whom he has saved, not those people making up for Christ’s shoddy work.   My friends also mistake what it means for grieving loved ones.

What Catholic teaching about purgatory gives the mourner is something to say and something to do.  No one ever knows quite what to say to mourners.  “She’s in a better place” can seem hollow, as C. S. Lewis commented in his marvelous A Grief Observed.   “I’m sorry” is always good.  But what a number of my non-Catholic relatives and friends observed to me was that they appreciated how my Catholic friends could say “I’m sorry” but also, “I’ll be praying for her” or “I’ve had a Mass said for her” or “We’ll pray the Rosary for you.”  It is, my relatives said, a wonderful testimony to the Catholic belief that our beloved dead are beyond our sight, but not beyond our reach.  Purgatory means for grief that when we believe in hope that our loved ones have joined Christ we are also capable, in our union with Christ in prayer, of still helping them along as they are made finally and fully their truest and best selves in Christ.

It’s not just a one-way street.  What many friends often say and half-believe, that our loved ones still “look down” and “take care of us” is something that Catholics believe is literally true.  Saints (those who’ve made it all the way into heaven) and those still being cleansed in purgatory do not pray for themselves: they pray for us.  What details they know of our lives is a mystery nobody can know, but the fact that they still look down on us and pray for us is a comfort.  This strong belief and the help it gave to me was another thing friends and relatives commented on.

Finally, the beliefs about the two-way connection between us and our beloved dead meant something for me as I dealt with my own grief.  They helped me realize the truth that mourning and grief are not something that end with the funeral.  And the practices associated with those beliefs both reinforced this truth and provided a means for living out those beliefs.  Early Christians celebrated the funeral Mass as a memorial and a plea to God to fulfill his promises and “complete the good work that he began” generally on the third day after death.  This was symbolic of the identification of the Christian with Christ who was raised on the third day.  But this tradition was complemented in various other Churches by Memorial Masses variously on the 7^th, 9^th, 30^th, and 40^th days after death, as well as on the anniversaries of death.

My kids, even the ones who didn’t know her, still have her as part of daily life. We remember her death every July 25^th but also daily at mealtimes when we add to our blessing, “God bless Grandma Deavel. . .and may the souls of the faithful departed rest in peace.”  She still loves us, we still love her.  And I don’t have to “get over” my grief any time soon.  I can let it blossom in its complicated way ever further into deeper love and hope.

David Paul Deavel is associate editor of Logos: A Journal of Catholic Thought and Culture and contributing editor for Gilbert Magazine.

Heidi Telpner has blogged for us before on the topic of grief. As a hospice nurse and author, Heidi has a lot of information to impart on this subject. However, today she's coming at the topic from a different angle as she shares information on grief and Judaism.

Disclaimer: The religious information contained in these guest blog posts are the beliefs of the guest blogger and in no way reflect Fairhaven's endorsement of any particular religion.

If you’re looking for certainty, you’ve come to the wrong religion. At least when it comes to death – Judaism offers you no guarantee. In Judaism, comfort is to be found in ancient ritual and community, not faith and salvation. We don’t spend much time discussing heaven. As my father says, he can be a Jew and an atheist at the same time. I think what he means is this – Judaism is focused on life, not death. It’s less a religion than a way of life.

I’d like to say we don’t worry about what we can’t know – heaven - and what we can’t control – death - but that would be a lie. Of course we worry. We’ve wondered about the meaning of life and death since ancient times. In the book of Job, one of the oldest books of the Hebrew Bible, when Job bewails all the many evils that have befallen him, he raises the question – how can a God who is good and just allow evil? Of course God never answers Job’s question, instead he poses his own questions (King James Version) – “Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? … Have the gates of death been revealed unto thee? … Or hast thou seen the gates of the shadow of death?” In other words, things of God are beyond our human understanding.

So how do we deal with death? We surround ourselves with ritual, family and friends. For instance, a Jew must be buried before the next sunset. This is why as a Jew, Jesus’ body had to be removed from the cross and hurriedly placed in a makeshift tomb.

Generally, Jewish people are not embalmed and most Jews are buried in a simple pine box, for from dust we were formed and unto dust we return. We sit ‘shiva’ or seven. For seven days, the family of the deceased does not work or go about a normal routine. Instead, the family receives visitors and guests who come to express condolences, provide comfort and honor the deceased. Many families cover all the mirrors in their house during this period. The modern reason given is that family members should avoid vanity and keep their thoughts focused on God. The more ancient reason is that it was once thought mirrors could confuse the soul on his way to heaven, so they were kept covered.

Ehow.com has an easy guide to the ritual of sitting shiva. (Click HERE to read it.)

Jews follow other ancient customs, such as the tearing of a garment, and Jewish funeral homes usually provide the mourners with a ribbon or piece of cloth that can be torn instead of clothing. A parent is mourned for thirty days, a child for an entire Hebrew year, and a memorial prayer is recited for the deceased every year on the anniversary of his or her death.

We have a specific prayer for the dead, the Kaddish, which is recited not only by the family, but by any member of the Jewish community who wishes to participate. This helps the family feel less isolated and alone in their grief. Interestingly enough, this prayer isn’t for the soul of the deceased; rather it’s for the glorification of God, the giver of life and death.

If you ever visit a Jewish cemetery, you’ll find small, inconspicuous headstones over the graves. And chances are you’ll find tiny piles of pebbles left on the headstones. This is a custom leftover from Roman times. We leave the pebbles as a mark of respect for the deceased, and to let them know they are not forgotten. Life is very important to us; we cherish the memories of our ancestors.

If you have a Jewish friend or co-worker who passes away, visiting with the family in those first seven days will mean the world to them.

Heidi Telpner is author of One Foot in Heaven, available at Barnes and Noble and Amazon.com. Heidi accidentally stumbled into nursing twenty-seven years ago and she never stumbled out. She's been a hospice nurse for the last nine of those twenty-seven years. Her initial training was as a midwife. She now midwifes her patients out the other end of life. Ms. Telpner and her husband live on the West Coast. They have three children, a dog, three cats, two birds and one lucky koi.

About One Foot in Heaven:

People die everyday. While most people in America die in a hospital, many families choose hospice for end of life care. Death, as experienced by hospice nurses, can be beautiful, peaceful, humorous, touching, tragic, disturbing, and even otherworldly. Hospice nurses act as midwives to dying people every day. Death transforms not just the patient and family, but the hospice nurse as well. The stories in this book are presented with the hope that their transformation extends to you, too.

Today, we continue our series on grief, faith and culture with a guest post from Fairhaven Family Service Counselor and Christian pastor, Jim Bogosian. Jim talks about a personal loss he suffered and how, as a Christian, his faith sustained him. As you will see, Jim's faith is very important to him and he used it to supply answers when his family suffered a tragedy.  Every day, the promises and teachings of his faith help him live with his loss and give him hope.

Disclaimer: The religious information contained in these guest blog posts are the beliefs of the guest blogger and in no way reflect Fairhaven's endorsement of any particular religion.

I will never forget April 17^th, 1990.  What started out as just another ordinary day turned out to be an extraordinary life-altering day.  Having not fully recovered from strep throat, that morning my wife and I took our first child, our daughter Elisabeth, who was 8 years old at the time, to our pediatrician.  Later that day, we entered a new world as together we stepped onto the oncology floor at Children’s Hospital, Los Angeles.

After waiting for what seemed an eternity to hear the results of a bone marrow test, we sat with an oncologist who told us that our daughter had a kind of leukemia that without treatment would take her life in two to three months!  So began our ten-month journey with our beautiful daughter who until then had been perfectly healthy...down a road we certainly hadn’t anticipated when we held her in our arms as a newborn.  Ten months later, we stood over her grave at a committal service at Forest Lawn in Hollywood Hills.

We had experienced what many have called the most traumatic, most profound, most overwhelming,  most inconsolable of losses.  For us—unprecedented pain, loss, sorrow, and grief.  What we had believed to be true, as part of our Christian faith—the Biblical truths that we had grown up learning and that as a pastor I had taught to my church week after week—were put to the test.  Through it all, and day-by-day for twenty years since our Elisabeth’s death, we have been enabled by God to live in and be enlarged by loss...to find healing, comfort, and recovery...and to experience new beginnings.  God’s promise, we have found, is true:  “No test that comes your way is beyond the course of what others have had to face.  All you need to remember is that God will never let you down; he’ll never let you be pushed past your limit; he’ll always be there to help you come through it” (1 Corinthians 10:13).  We have run for our very lives to God, grabbed the promised hope with both hands and found an unbreakable spiritual lifeline.

This lifeline is what the Bible calls “grace,” the “Amazing Grace” we sing about and that God freely gives to those who relinquish their self confidence and self will and put their trust in Jesus Christ, choosing to pursue his way of living and submit to his leadership.  God’s full provision, his supply, his mercy—that which we can never earn and do not deserve—is gifted to us who believe to meet our every need.

At the times when we were without our own resources and ability to cope, we took hold of God’s “grace resources” that are promised to all Christians.  Here are some:

Biblical understanding—the awareness that we live in a fallen world order (so that we could accept life in a broken world rather than challenge what is);  the knowledge that God is perfectly good, loving, faithful, kind (so that, we could reflect on what God is like—instead of focusing on the pain of our loss and feeling confused and angry at God);  the understanding that God rules over all (so that when it looks and feels like things are out of control, we can choose to submit our lives and circumstances to God);  the knowledge that God is the only one who can bring good out of what is bad gave us hope for the future.

Encouraging examples—Stories from the Bible and from history of those who endured losses—people who trusted God in their afflictions, loved him with their whole being, and obeyed him. Their examples have kept us going, their songs have encouraged us, their poetry has given us language to express our complaints, pain, hope (Psalms), their stories have provided perspective.

God’s presence and promises—The Christian can be confident of God’s presence and can draw on his promises in the Bible.  Countless times when we felt fearful and vulnerable, we held on to the promise of his presence with us (e.g. “God has said, ‘Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.’  So we say with confidence, ‘The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid.’” Hebrews 13:5,6;  “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me” Psalm 23:4).

Supportive relationships—In our darkest days we came to value more than ever the care and support of the Christian community.  Many hundreds prayed for us, wrote to us, called us, visited us, took care of our two other kids (a 5 year old and a 2 year old); provided meals for us.  And almost every day people of faith came to the hospital or to our home and cried with us, prayed with us, encouraged us, held us, played with us...

Hope for the future—There is no more sad place on earth than a grave site.  As a pastor, I’ve stood over many open graves watching families say their last goodbyes to their loved ones, tears streaming down their faces...  The most heartbreaking was when my wife and I had to bury our daughter.  But it is against the black backdrop of death that the light of the Christian message shines most radiantly and means the most.  Because Jesus Christ offered his life for us on the cross and came out of the grave alive, the person who trusts in him is forgiven and assured of eternal life in heaven.  So when a follower of Jesus dies, the part of us we cannot see—the spirit/soul—immediately goes to be with the Lord in heaven.

In the middle of our grief, we were able to rejoice knowing that when our Elisabeth took her final breath here on earth, she stepped into the presence of God in heaven!  And someday when Jesus returns to the earth, the bodies of those who have died in Christ will be raised / transformed, and a new world order will be established.  That day every wrong will be made right, sorrow will be turned into joy, darkness into light, brokenness into wholeness, loss into gain.   This “good news” is promised by God himself in the Bible, verified by Christ’s empty grave!

My wife and I would have no comfort if we had no hope of ever seeing our precious daughter, Elisabeth, again.  But because of Christ we’re going to heaven and we will see her again.  We’ll be able to hug her, kiss her, talk with her, laugh with her, and together enjoy the life that God has planned for us in the world to come!  Each day that passes, we’re one day closer to that great day!  In the meantime, every day as we walk with Jesus we can live in his peace, joy, and purpose!

How many funerals, visitations and wakes have you been to where the casket has been open and the deceased on display for all to see? I know that within my own family on my mother's side, open caskets were practically mandatory at every funeral and/or visitation. But every family's preference is different and sometimes circumstances are such that an open casket is not possible. And sometimes it is the family's traditions and faith that dictate whether or not a casket should be open.

There are a variety of reasons people prefer to have an open casket. If you discount those who do it for religious reasons, when the determination of whether or not to do it becomes personal preference, many times the reason boils down to the grief of the family. For some, viewing their loved one in the casket helps them to accept the death and helps them to move on. For others, this ritual is seen as a sign of respect for the one who has passed. And in many cases, it is a chance for those left behind to say goodbye. This especially holds true if the person had not seen the decedent recently or if the decedent died very unexpectedly.

Four years ago, my daughter was awakened on her birthday with text messages.  The messages were not birthday wishes but news that a friend had been killed in a car accident. Understandably, my daughter was upset, perhaps more so because such a tragedy occurred on her birthday. She had not seen her friend recently, but she still felt the need to say goodbye. She went to the visitation, but there was no open casket because of the nature of the accident. My daughter wished she could have seen her friend, but understood why it was not to be. Even after all the time that has passed, she still wishes she could have seen her friend one last time.

The affects of not being able to see a loved one that final time can sometimes be felt for years afterward. Michael Alarcon, manager of Fairhaven Memorial Services, told me a story he does not often share with others.

"I was 18 when my grandfather passed away.  As a Catholic, we scheduled a Visitation and Rosary Recital to be held the evening before the Mass.  I was young, immature and unaware fully of the Catholic traditions; I chose to spend the evening of the Visitation and Rosary hanging out with my friends because I was certain that I would have an opportunity to view him in the morning at the Mass.

"I found out the next day at the Mass that the casket would be closed as the focus was on the Liturgy.  Twenty three years have passed since my grandfather died.  I still have an ache in my heart and wished I had been more aware of the Catholic tradition. I wished I taken the opportunity to view him when I had the chance."

For Michael, the dust of guilt now mars his memories of his grandfather's funeral. The last view, the last chance to say goodbye, had been lost.

When deciding whether or not to have a visitation or whether or not to attend one, you must think about what is important to you and how you will feel. It would not be beneficial to family members if you went to the viewing of a friend and were emotionally unable to deal with an open casket. And viewing is truly a personal preference as some people are afraid to view the dead.

For myself, it was never important to see the person in their casket. I viewed neither of my parents even though my siblings and friends of my parents did attend the viewing. I preferred that my last memories of them not be that of their body in the casket. My choice upset my sister, but I had to do what was right for me.

Growing up in a family that usually had open casket funerals, I had no problems with visitations as a child. However, caution should be exercised with regard to taking children to visitations as they may become frightened.  I remember when I was seven, my aunt Laura died. Her children arranged for a visitation, then a funeral and burial. Since Laura lived in Washington State and we lived in California, my mother had to race to get to the funeral. It was very important to my mother to see her sister one last time. She needed the closure. She needed to say goodbye and she had no qualms taking her seven year old along since I had been to other funerals.

Since we were driving, my mother was very afraid we would not make it to the funeral on time. The service was held in a small church in a very tiny town near where my mother was born. When my mother realized we would miss the funeral by an hour or so, she called her sisters and she asked that they hold the service for her. It was a story they all laughed about later that day at my Aunt Laura's wake, how the funeral service had been held so Mabel could make there from California.

To this day I remember my mother marching me and my two grown brothers up the aisle of the church to the front pew. We sat down and she told the preacher he could begin. After the service, she asked for the casket to be opened just for her so she could say goodbye. Everyone but my mother and her sisters left the church so the Mullins sisters could say goodbye to Laura.

That last chance to see Laura meant the world to my mother. She never forgot how her sisters made the preacher wait for her to arrive before starting the service and how the funeral director accommodated their wish to see Laura afterward. And as you can see, it is a story that remains bright in my memories of my mother and my aunt more than forty years after Laura's death.

The need to see your loved one a final time, to say goodbye, to find closure, to pay your respects or to see the proof that they are gone is something that in all ways affects the processing of your grief. Whether you choose to view someone or not is all part of dealing with grief and everyone must make the choice that is right for them.

You've suffered the loss of a loved one. Your friends and family are well meaning, but maybe you need some more private help, something you can do on your own to help cope. Here's a list of ten things you can do online to help ease your grief.

 1. Light a candle to your loved one at gratefulness.org.

2. Create a memorial web page.

3. Join an online grief club or support group or community.

4. Search for a local grief support group.

5. Search for books on grief: Amazon's Top Grief Books.

6. Create a memorial video to be viewed online.

7. View videos about coping with grief. 8. Join a Facebook grief group.

9. Chat with others in a grief chatroom.

10. Write about your loved one in a blog post or journal or subscribe to a blog that talks about loss and grief.

Not everything you do to ease your grief has to be public or shared with your family and friends. There are many things you can do privately, on your own with the help of your computer and the internet. You can find resources and answers to your questions as well as find out how other people cope with losing a loved one. Hopefully, the links here can help you in your time of need.    

Today’s post is by Lou Carlson, who has been a Family Service Counselor at Fairhaven Memorial Park for twenty years.

Dell Eastman had worked at Fairhaven Memorial Park and Mortuary for 20 years when I met him. He had begun work as a cemetery salesman, and when the mortuary was built be continued to serve families as an arrangement counselor. He had a warm and engaging smile, kind of bulgy eyes and he walked with a slight limp from years of standing and waiting (we do that a lot in cemetery service!). But he was a wonderful conversationalist because he asked questions. He wanted to know about you, he was genuinely interested in your life and story.

Dell had retired after 20 years. He thought he would enjoy life, relaxing at home. His wife, Ann, however had very different ideas and gave Dell a “honey-do” list every day. The list always included sweeping the garage floor and the front porch. (Dell detested pushing a broom!!) Dell returned to Fairhaven employment in less than a year!! He worked another ten years before he finally retired “for good”.

For ten years, after he returned to work, I watched Dell, who was now serving families as a service director. He was patient, courteous, polite and careful. We talked over lunch in the employee break room, at graveside services as we waited for the family to arrive and at the Elks Club, when Dell took me to lunch there. And most days, Dell came into my office (when I was not with a family) to chat. We became good friends. He had many friends at Fairhaven Memorial Park and in the community where he lived.

Then, a few weeks ago, it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen Dell for a while. I shrugged it off assuming that he might be visiting family, or something. I thought I’d drive by his home (he lives very near me) and see how he was doing. But I didn’t do it. I ignored the quiet voice in my heart that told me to visit him.

On Sunday, the phone rang at my home. Dell had died.

I was shocked, grieved at the death of a long time friend and guilty that I had not tried to visit him. If I had driven by his house I would have discovered that he was hospitalized, then in a nursing home, where he died. I was most saddened to learn that almost no one knew of his health situation, or had visited him during his last days and hours on earth.

Dell had asked me to officiate at his wife’s funeral a few years ago. After the services, he asked me to do the same thing at his (future) services, and I agreed. Twice at lunch at the Elks Club and once in my office, I interviewed Dell about his life. He told me his life story, he told me about Ann and their love, he told me about his military service in the Pacific theater of World War II, he shared many stories about serving families at funerals and of his love for California Lottery “Scratchers” (he bought many of them every day!!). And, he gave me a little gift. It was a card that read:

‘“A hug is the perfect gift – one size fits all and nobody minds if you exchange it.” (Ivern Ball)…. Dell Eastman.’

The staff atFairhaven, all who knew Dell, were stricken at the news of his passing. The ladies remembered Dell’s hugs – he loved to hug people (especially the ladies!). He was one of our own, and now, instead of standing beside the casket of a client, he was in his own casket. He was neatly dressed and looking younger than I had seen him in years. But the smile was gone, his eyes were closed, his hands were folded over his lap, his voice was stilled. Our co-worker, our friend was gone. Thousands of families whom he had served, had lost a memorable funeral counselor and service director. And we had all lost a dear friend.

At his funeral I told the story of his life, recounted his exploits during WWII, shared his love for Ann and gave everyone a personal copy of Dell’s “hug card”. Then, as the service ended, I asked the service directors to give to every guest a Lottery “Scratcher” card. It seemed a fitting way to conclude the services for a friend who had changed our lives with his smile, his hugs and his servant’s heart.

But Fairhaven Memorial Park will never be the same without him. Since his passing I have seen small groups of staff chatting about Dell, sharing memories and funny stories about him, wondering how many people remember him and how many staff never met him. Some were surprised, even shocked to learn that he had died. They had seen him recently – he seemed so well!!

There were some tears, some hugs and a quiet time.

All who work at a funeral home must deal with death and dying, directly or indirectly every day. We serve a mourning community. But it is in moments like these, when we must live through the death of a valued colleague, that we discover again how valuable our friends and family are. And how vulnerable we are to the emotions of grief and loss, when a co-worker dies.