The Way It Looks from Here An occasional e-letter from Peter Rogness

Saint Paul Area Synod July 30, 2010

Dear Partners in Ministry: One month.   You who receive this occasional e-letter also receive most of the other information we send out from the synod office, including the death notices we post about clergy in our synod. Each person's passing is a loss.   On June 30, we reported the death of my younger brother Andrew, who had been serving at Prince of Peace Lutheran in Roseville. This e-letter contains some personal musing, perhaps more for my own benefit in writing it than for yours in reading it. But given that the journey towards death is both a powerful and universal experience, some of you may be drawn into these reflections and find connections with your own.   Grace and Gratitude Our family saw June 30 coming. Andrew was diagnosed with stage four cancer in August 2007, given two to five years to live, and began his journey. My father modeled for me how to grow old with grace; Andrew modeled how to face death with grace. There was no escape to denial; he spoke candidly about his cancer, of his condition, and about the question of life expectancy that was now front and center. Yet he refused to become fatalistic or morose, angry or depressed. Instead he seemed to live each day in even more vivid color, seeing and naming more clearly the abundant blessings that he now saw were his, past and present. He savored life, with grace and gratitude even more pronounced.   Paradox Many of you who have accompanied someone dying of a terminal illness know this to be a paradoxical journey of both deep pain and rich blessing. The prolonged agony of knowing life with all its relationships is slipping away is accompanied by the opportunity to name and dwell in the abundance of love that gives life its fullness. Andrew and Patti moved to the Cities a year or two before Gerry and I came in 2002. Like most of you, we were busy with the claims of work and our own families and activities. Sometimes weeks would go by without seeing each other. We probably spent more time together since August 2007 than in the 20 years before that. And in the process, this truth emerged: that when life is tenuous, life's priorities gain new clarity. I think we all know it. We just aren't good at practicing it when we're not at a crisis point.   The Practice of Faith Shortly after 9:00 a.m. on June 30, in the middle of a staff meeting at the office, I received the call that Andrew's condition was worsening. He had been hospitalized for 12 days. By midmorning he was surrounded by sons Joel and Stephen, Joel's wife Louise, Stephen's fiancée Sarah, Gerry, and me. You may have read in the Pioneer Press the account of the wedding. Andrew had yearned to be alive for the July 10 wedding of Stephen and Sarah. He had written (and shared with them) the homily. That morning they got their marriage license, called Sarah's parents to come, and had a wedding! We observed that in many cultures weddings are spread over several days, so theirs would too--ten days in this case. With Andrew mostly awake, we read his homily; the bride and groom spoke words to each other; they repeated the vows and were pronounced wed. Joy was present, and Andrew was part of it. Then within three hours, he was gone.   As his breathing slowed, the rituals of faith practice in the home gave foundation for the final moments. We sang the hymn we had sung in our homes, "Abide with Me"--the Rogness nighttime family hymn for generations. We prayed together "Now I lay me down to sleep...." We recited Psalm 23, just as Andrew had the entire synod assembly do at the conclusion of his "Dwelling in the Word" reflection two years ago. And one of his sons suggested we sing another hymn learned at their grandmother's prodding, "Now the Day Is Over," and we sang the second verse:   Jesus gives the weary calm and sweet repose; With thy tend'rest blessing, may my eyelids close.   And then, mostly in silence, we surrounded him as he slipped away. Deeply painful and deeply holy.   How do families together find the words that give shape and definition to these moments that name both the pain and the hope? Most often they are words and thoughts and beliefs that have been planted long before. When we pass on to our parishioners, our youth, and our families these cornerstone faith practices, we do nothing short of equip them to lean into the presence of the loving God we've come to know and name in these rituals and practices.   Take Time to Grieve In 1992 when my father died, a friend and chaplain who had known our family well said to me, "Peter, make sure you take time to grieve." He wasn't speaking of simply taking a few days off after the funeral, though that's part of it. He described for me the permission we need to give ourselves to recognize that grief will take center stage at times--intensely at first, in intermittent waves for quite some time afterwards. Give yourself permission, he said, to recognize you aren't always going to be fully focused or fully engaged; sometimes you will, then sometimes you won't. Losing someone who loomed large in your life takes your breath away, and life's balance takes a while to be regained.   I had been planning vacation for the last three weeks of July--our daughter's family from Norway is with us. But I found myself surrounded with a marvelous group of colleagues in the synod office who recognized they would be pretty much operating without me from June 30 and beyond, and they sent me on my way...and that's been a marvelous gift. Frankly, as Andrew's condition worsened, I was often preoccupied even before his death. It has been pure gift to be the recipient of that kind of support.   Final Witness It's common for pastors who are caring for those facing death to talk about what might be desired in a funeral or memorial service, recognizing that the service itself is both a faith gathering for those who live and a final witness to the life and faith of the person who has died. Andrew both had that conversation with his parishioners and took the advice himself. He chose the hymns and lessons and identified the preacher and ministers. And then he went one step further. He often suggested to others that they write something themselves that could be read at the service. His reasoning (as he phrased it): "Why depend on some loose cannon in-law to volunteer to summarize your life?" So he wrote something himself--a final witness, profound and moving words of love to his family, and a proclamation of those core beliefs about the God who gave shape to his life and his passion for being a faithful caretaker of all God has given him and us.   We are up against a culture that resists death, then sanitizes it, and finally stiff-upper-lips its way past it when it happens. We who believe in a God who has overcome death have a profound moment to witness to this God in our care for this final gathering. Andrew witnessed to all that he believed and received. Through it all, again, gratitude and grace.   The Cloud of Witnesses From the time my brother Paul died when I was 15, my father returned often to the image of Hebrews 12--the great cloud of witnesses that surrounds us. It's a powerful image of the continued life and presence of those who leave this life. But it is also a powerful here-and-now image as well. Andrew spoke and wrote often of his gratitude for the many prayers, cards, calls, visits, and Caring Bridge posts. Rarely is it someone with "just the right words" that gives comfort and support. Rather it is presence, the shared journey, the staying in touch. Andrew felt it. So have Patti and Joel and Stephen and others of us, myself included. Those of you who have sent notes and shared prayers have lived out the power of this cloud of witnesses, the body where all members share in both the joy and the grieving of one member, and in the doing, become yourselves the comfort of God enfleshed for others.   My thanks.   Peter Rogness