ALL SAINTS’ DAY
After lighting a candle and taking my place in the choir loft this morning for First Baptist Church of Asheville’s observance of All Saints’ Day, my mind drifted back fifteen years to my first experience of this holy day. I was supposed to have begun my tenure as associate pastor at Immanuel Baptist Church on November 1, 2009. Instead, less than 24 hours after my mother’s funeral, I sat in the pews of that church on All Saints’ Day as a griever, not a pastor.
None of the Baptist churches where I had worshipped during the first 45 years of my life had observed All Saints’ Day, so I was unsure what to expect. During the prelude, I wondered if I should have stayed home. Why did I feel compelled to attend a worship service with strangers honoring the memories of people I had never met?
As I listened to the slow and somber roll call of church members who had died during the previous year, I realized I was exactly where I needed to be. I was a mourner among mourners. I didn't know the stories of those whose names were announced accompanied by a tolling bell. The congregation didn’t know my mother’s story. Nevertheless, I found deep consolation in the solidarity of the suffering.
On that Sunday morning as we sang “For All the Saints,” I gazed out the windows at the glorious yellow gingko trees in the courtyard and contemplated the depth and breadth of my grief. I was mourning more than my mother’s death. I had suffered other significant losses that fall.
Accepting this position had not necessitated a move, but I was leaving behind the congregation where my husband and I had raised our son, a place where we had banked 15 years of memories, the geographic center of our network of friends.
We were also newly-minted empty nesters. Our only child had started college during my interview process, while my mother was dying. I missed him. I also dearly missed his friends from church, who were like family to us.
The landscape of my life had been inexorably altered. Too many losses. So many changes. Grief compounded by grief.
This morning during worship we sang “For All the Saints.” As the name of each church member who died during the previous year was read aloud, a white candle was lit on the table and a bell tolled. The final candle was lit in memory of all those whose lives were lost in the wake of Hurricane Helene.
The landscape of our lives has been inexorably altered. Too many losses. So many changes. Grief compounded by grief.
Here in storm-battered Western North Carolina, we have first-hand experience with the solidarity of the suffering. We grieve together. We acknowledge the magnitude of our losses, even as we express gratitude for the generous gifts of strangers. The Spirit of God is comforting and sustaining us in mysterious ways.
God grieves with us. God grieves with you.
