Sacred Space and Time
Today I am grateful for safe travels to and from Iowa, a visit with my mom and several other family members, time on the farm in the quiet of early morning.
I traveled to Iowa for the funeral of my Aunt Joyce, who died of cancer last Friday, June 5, at age 76. I recall my aunt as someone with lots of spirit and a sharp sense of humor and frankness. Not having traveled back to my home state since February, prior to the pandemic and all that brings with it, it was an interesting journey of both miles and experiences.
My brother and I visited our mom on the porch of the nursing home, with her inside and a window screen between us. It was something. It was sharing space and time together. Sacred space and time.
I opted to attend the visitation for Joyce in person, hand on heart, no hugs or handshakes. I wanted to greet my uncle, cousins, and their spouses and children in person to offer my sympathies and honor Joyce's life. A small gesture in the whole scheme of things, but a meaningful one. Sacred space and time.
I wasn't yet comfortable to attend a large gathering inside a church for her funeral, so I chose to watch the livestream of her service on Facebook. Thank you to all who helped make that possible.
Before I left the visitation on Tuesday afternoon, I sat down and watched the video of dozens and dozens of pictures of Joyce and her family from the last several decades, and from the last several weeks. It was hard, but also so important, to see some of the last pictures Joyce was in, as cancer ravaged her body.
Images of my sister Mary Jo came to my mind. A year ago, she was in her final days, also ravaged by cancer. Cancer is awful and what it does to a person dying from it is awful. Mary Jo knows peace. Joyce knows peace. Those images of both of them in their final days capture the suffering and make it possible to accept that, though their families and friends miss them tremendously, they have the peace they deserve.
The last weeks and days of both Mary Jo's and Joyce's lives held sacred space and time for those of us who witnessed it. The ravages of cancer. The peace in passing. Our sorrow is sacred too.
I traveled to Iowa for the funeral of my Aunt Joyce, who died of cancer last Friday, June 5, at age 76. I recall my aunt as someone with lots of spirit and a sharp sense of humor and frankness. Not having traveled back to my home state since February, prior to the pandemic and all that brings with it, it was an interesting journey of both miles and experiences.
My brother and I visited our mom on the porch of the nursing home, with her inside and a window screen between us. It was something. It was sharing space and time together. Sacred space and time.
I opted to attend the visitation for Joyce in person, hand on heart, no hugs or handshakes. I wanted to greet my uncle, cousins, and their spouses and children in person to offer my sympathies and honor Joyce's life. A small gesture in the whole scheme of things, but a meaningful one. Sacred space and time.
I wasn't yet comfortable to attend a large gathering inside a church for her funeral, so I chose to watch the livestream of her service on Facebook. Thank you to all who helped make that possible.
Before I left the visitation on Tuesday afternoon, I sat down and watched the video of dozens and dozens of pictures of Joyce and her family from the last several decades, and from the last several weeks. It was hard, but also so important, to see some of the last pictures Joyce was in, as cancer ravaged her body.
Images of my sister Mary Jo came to my mind. A year ago, she was in her final days, also ravaged by cancer. Cancer is awful and what it does to a person dying from it is awful. Mary Jo knows peace. Joyce knows peace. Those images of both of them in their final days capture the suffering and make it possible to accept that, though their families and friends miss them tremendously, they have the peace they deserve.
The last weeks and days of both Mary Jo's and Joyce's lives held sacred space and time for those of us who witnessed it. The ravages of cancer. The peace in passing. Our sorrow is sacred too.
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