I love many things about this time of year: crisp air, comfort foods from late harvests, warm drinks and blankets, cozy clothing, and nature’s vast array of colour. I adopt a sense of urgency, like animals preparing for hibernation, as I strive to complete gardening and painting projects and put outdoor furniture into storage before autumn becomes winter.
At the same time, these seasons remind me of our mortality. Trees shed their foliage. Hostas, which filled my flower beds with lush greenery mere weeks ago, shrivel and wilt in shades of brown and rust. Roses, which one minute were filled with blossoms, show bare thorns after a windy rain stripped them of any signs of youth. The changes in autumn are both gradual and sudden, and they all seem to point towards death.
My first real encounter with human death happened in November of my Grade 5 year. My younger buddy in the kindergarten class took ill and died very suddenly over the course of a weekend. I remember the bitterly cold, damp weather in the days following her funeral like they were yesterday. I recall feeling lost and almost desperate, standing alone by the swings on our school playground while other children’s laughter rang out as background music to my all-consuming thoughts of what “forever” could possibly mean. I felt an ache like I had never felt before as the cold air moved around me and the image of the frost-covered mound of dirt over her tiny casket in the graveyard by our church continued to creep into my mind.
I suppose I will carry those memories for the rest of my life. This is why, when the winds change and the feasts of All Saints and All Souls arrive, I often find myself feeling melancholy, particularly in the darkness of the evenings.
Forty-two years later, I continue to revisit the feelings I first experienced as a child; however, now I have an acceptance of mortality which I lacked then. As an adult, I have endured many more losses since, and I understand the importance of sharing that grief with others rather than trying to face it all alone. As an adult, I likewise know that I can turn to prayer for the faithful departed, for their loved ones, and for my own comfort. Without the consolation and power of both community and prayer, I am certain that grief would be far too difficult for me to handle.
This fall, I find my prayer list for those who are grieving particularly long. Some of the recent deaths in the lives of my family and friends were sudden, some followed lengthy illnesses, and others were related to declining health in old age. Even though we are in the middle of a global pandemic, only one of the people I pray for has died of COVID-19.
COVID may not have ended the lives of others on my prayer list, but it has certainly changed the circumstances surrounding their deaths. Loved ones cannot gather around sick beds at nursing homes, hospitals, and even private residences.
Family and friends cannot gather to celebrate the lives of people who have passed away. Funerals have limited attendance, and people are discouraged from embracing at times when they need hugs – and shoulders to cry on – the most.
I pray that the grieving recognize that forever is not an earthly timeframe. Like the winter winds that blow in at the end of each year, we are reminded, life on earth is fleeting. Simultaneously, akin to preparing for hibernation, we find comfort and beauty in knowing that forever means eternity with God. Even though we cannot gather physically at this time, those who die and those who grieve are never really alone.
We pray for “all souls” to assist those on the other side preparing for their forevers. We trust in the words in the Book of Wisdom, “The souls of the just are in the hand of God, and no torment shall touch them. They seemed, in the view of the foolish, to be dead; and their passing away was thought an affliction and their going forth from us, utter destruction. But they are in peace” (Wis 3:1).
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May the souls of all the faithful departed rest in peace. Amen.