The Things We Carry

A couple of weeks ago, I got a frightened phone call from my sister.

She was walking home from worship service at her church, during which someone had fallen ill and collapsed. She had watched, with growing concern, as several people had tried to revive this woman, and then – failing to do so – called in the paramedics.

The pastors had interrupted the service to move everyone to another room in the building, where they concluded the now-solemn gathering with a song and prayer. People sang quietly, tears streaming down their faces, and then left in silence, all wondering – did we just watch someone die?

My sister called me, shaken up and asking the same. She said it made her realize all of the trauma we’re still carrying around from the last two years of COVID, of watching people die all around us and being helpless to save them. That we haven’t resolved that, haven’t necessarily processed it, and still have to deal with its repercussions and consequences.

It’s good to get back to something like normal, to gather again, to hug, to share meals and laughter and celebrate the big and little things.

But I’ve also noticed that sometimes this urge to “get back” doesn’t leave space for the reality that we are different people now. We have been through something terrible, and we can’t just flick a switch and turn it all off.

At the very least, we realize how precious and wonderful it is to celebrate birthdays and weddings and graduations and even to gather for funerals in physical space together.

But perhaps more honestly, we are profoundly exhausted, and grieved, and we have lost some things we may never get back.

That woman from church, I am happy to say, is just fine. But that night at church reminded my sister and I of something important: of what we are still carrying.

And so, as we get back in some ways, to some things – here is what I hope we remember: that we are different people now. But that doesn’t have to be all bad. We can be more grateful, more deeply rooted in the blessing of what is right in front of us. We can be kinder to ourselves and to others, recognizing that we all carry untold burdens. We can be more open to the grace and mercy of every day. We can be more curious about what God is doing, even when things seem bleak.

I hope we will.

-Pastor Jen

The Things We Carry

A couple of weeks ago, I got a frightened phone call from my sister.

She was walking home from worship service at her church, during which someone had fallen ill and collapsed. She had watched, with growing concern, as several people had tried to revive this woman, and then – failing to do so – called in the paramedics.

The pastors had interrupted the service to move everyone to another room in the building, where they concluded the now-solemn gathering with a song and prayer. People sang quietly, tears streaming down their faces, and then left in silence, all wondering – did we just watch someone die?

My sister called me, shaken up and asking the same. She said it made her realize all of the trauma we’re still carrying around from the last two years of COVID, of watching people die all around us and being helpless to save them. That we haven’t resolved that, haven’t necessarily processed it, and still have to deal with its repercussions and consequences.

It’s good to get back to something like normal, to gather again, to hug, to share meals and laughter and celebrate the big and little things.

But I’ve also noticed that sometimes this urge to “get back” doesn’t leave space for the reality that we are different people now. We have been through something terrible, and we can’t just flick a switch and turn it all off.

At the very least, we realize how precious and wonderful it is to celebrate birthdays and weddings and graduations and even to gather for funerals in physical space together.

But perhaps more honestly, we are profoundly exhausted, and grieved, and we have lost some things we may never get back.

That woman from church, I am happy to say, is just fine. But that night at church reminded my sister and I of something important: of what we are still carrying.

And so, as we get back in some ways, to some things – here is what I hope we remember: that we are different people now. But that doesn’t have to be all bad. We can be more grateful, more deeply rooted in the blessing of what is right in front of us. We can be kinder to ourselves and to others, recognizing that we all carry untold burdens. We can be more open to the grace and mercy of every day. We can be more curious about what God is doing, even when things seem bleak.

I hope we will.

-Pastor Jen

Love’s Price

“Grief is the price we pay for love.”

That’s what Queen Elizabeth said the day after 9/11, quoting the British Psychiatrist Colin Murray Parkes. These words come back to me today as I greet the news of the death of my mentor, colleague, foe (at times) and almost life-long friend and fellow pilgrim Rev. Richard Lucco.

I first met him at the free-throw line at after-school basketball at North Park Covenant Church when he was a seminary student and I was seven years of age. As I tried to launch the ball with might I didn’t have in my little body, he pushed me aside and said, “watch and learn!” with his characteristic whole body laugh. That day began my relationship with my first coach. In many ways, my journey followed his. Later he was my camp counselor, and a fellow covenant pastor who was present at my ordination interview in 1995. After the interview, while I was nervously waiting out in the lobby as the board deliberated, Dick emerged from the room to call me back in with a somber face, and said, “We’ve denied you because you’re a cubs fan!” And the whole body laugh came again, he a Cardinals die-hard.

He went on to be a conference superintendent and then ECC Vice President, and here for a season our collegial relationship was strained by the hard discernments of our pastoral journeys. Never, though, was there a question about our friendship filled with deep respect and love. In the midst of it all he came and found me one day and said, “I love you very much.” Just at the right moment, a kind of hollow, grieving moment (I’ll spare you the details), he came and loved me. There’s that connection again.

Today it’s holy grief that shows up and knocks at the door. After five years of a mighty struggle with an aggressive and unrelenting cancer, Dick Lucco has died. Our chances at life together, at least according to our mortal frames, are gone. Our continued work at healing is over.

Losing those you love really does lead us into grief. I’m learning as I grow older how true that is.

Yes, yes, our faith gives us hope. We greet the glad news that death has been swallowed up by life. We ask the defiant questions of the early church: “Where, O Death is your victory? Where, O death is your sting?” But we shake our fist at death as at least for now, it gets the best of us. I don’t know about you, but I’m longing for the promises of God to come into clear view when these dreaded sufferings and sorrows are no more. On that day we will be able to say together, to sing together, “Thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

For now, these things still sting.

Love (and grief) from here,

Peter Hawkinson

“Into your hands, O merciful Savior, we commend your servant Richard Lucco. Acknowledge we humbly beseech you, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming. Receive Richard into the arms of your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light. Amen.