What Really Matters...

The Anglican blogworld has been fascinated with questions about bishops and dioceses, even numerology prophecies by the Bishop of Pittsburgh! Our last week at St. Christopher's has been focused on something far more important--the sudden death of one of our relatively young parishioners (although as years go by, "relatively young" changes meaning to me).

On Monday, March 31, Terri Wukasinovich, 44-year-old wife of Tom and mother of 8-year-old Ashley, began to feel unwell. The next day, she began to feel better, but in the afternoon she started to feel worse. Tom was summoned home from work. Soon, Terri was rushed to the hospital and she died shortly after midnight. We don't know the exact cause, but it seems to have been a virulent form of pneumonia.

The word flashed around our parish on Wednesday, often using the more modern means of e-mail. When I read the message Wednesday afternoon, I was stunned. It was so unexpected that my thought was, didn't I just see her in church? I wasn't necessarily very close to them, but we knew each other, spoke to each other and sometimes saw each other around Perry. Now she was gone.

I can't imagine the grief, pain and fear Tom felt. I don't know if it helped, but in our other funerals, the person was older and death was not so sudden; there was clear grief, but the stunned shock wasn't there.

I assisted at Terri's funeral yesterday on a grey, cool morning. On cloudy days, it seems that the church's lights don't really brighten the church much and maybe that was appropriate this day. Our theology of funerals being a celebration of resurrection ran headlong into the grief and pain of loss and I'm not sure which won out.

I doubt that if I live to 100, I'll ever forget the intensity of the pain on Tom's face or even more, the stunned, dazed look on Ashley's face as she sat in the front pew next to her father, clutching a large stuffed animal for comfort. I'm sure part of her knew this HAD to be a nightmare from which she'd wake up and her mother would be there. A week before, her mom was with her, now she sat next to her casket.

Tom and Ashley have two families who are trying to help: their natural family and their church family. Add in his workplace family, who was also supporting him, and there are plenty of people to help. But, almost instantly, Tom has lost his companion in life and Ashley has to grow up without her mother. And Tom has to now be both father and mother to his daughter.

And this is what really matters: these two children of God bereft and searching for answers. We reject that this was in some way God's will or that Terri's death was some punishment for something she might have done or even something someone else might have done. We don't know why one person dies in her 40's and another lives to her 80's. All we do know is that Terri has been reunited with those who have gone before here and some wonderful way and now she waits for Tom and Ashley to join her in God's good time.

Father in heaven, we praise your name for all who have finished this life loving and trusting you, for the example of their lives, the life and grace you gave them, and the peace in which they rest. We praise you today for your servant Terri and for all that you did through her. Meet us in our sadness and fill our hearts with praise and thanksgiving, for the sake of our risen Lord, Jesus Christ. Amen.

Ralph S. Davison (Feb. 8, 1921-Feb. 5, 2008)

Today, a little after lunch, I got one of those phone calls that you never want to get. My stepmother called in tears to tell that my father had just collapsed at home and that the paramedics were there and said he had no heart activity.

Until about 2 years ago, I thought my dad would outlive me. At 85, he worked full time for the State of Illinois and wasn't that interested in retiring. He and my stepmother traveled a bit and he sounded quite vigorous. Then, in March, 2006, a tornado struck their part of Springfield, Illinois. While their house wasn't damaged, they were without power for several days and the basement got flooded. After several days in a cold, wet, powerless house, he developed pneumonia and he never could shake it. He would come in and out of the hospital and lost a lot of weight, down to about 130 pounds.

Last summer, I drove up to Illinois for the first time in 16 years (they had seen us in Texas and Georgia, where we lived) because I felt that I needed to get up there. While I was shocked by the frailty of his appearance, he was in fact stronger than I expected, doing things around the house. Throughout, his mind was clear. I really didn't get the feeling when I left that I wouldn't see him again.

But, he seemed to steadily decline, going back in the hospital and finally came home a couple of weeks ago. I talked to him last Thursday evening. He didn't really want to talk because he said he was so tired. Although he sounded very weak, I didn't really think this was the last time I would speak to him. Yesterday, I even mailed him a birthday card.

I have a mixture of emotions. I'm sad for several reasons. Since my mother died 23 years ago, the last link to my first years is gone. Although we got together rarely, we had frequently spoken frequently. He was proud that his grandson was interested in attending his alma mater, Georgia Tech. He was concerned as his granddaughter adjusted to married life. He was disappointed not to be able to attend my retirement from the Air Force Reserve last year, but enjoyed seeing the pictures I brought him. He knew I loved him and I knew he loved me.

I feel relief that his suffering and sickness are over and I am reminded that healing can mean release and not always curing. He now can be reunited with those who went before him, his parents, his sisters, my mother, and many more... and he now waits patiently for my stepmother and eventually my sister and me.

I now have a painful (final?) trip to Illinois in the next few days. I guess you could say that the sombreness of my mood matches Lent, which begins tomorrow.