One of my favorite parts of Giuseppe Verdi’s Requiem is the Lux Aeterna, Movement 6. I’ve only sung it a few times, but I suppose that I like it so much because the voicing is unexpected.  These beautiful words of peace and comfort are usually given to the soprano to sing, giving them an ethereal presence instead of the more grounded one that comes from a trio made up of the three lower voices: the mezzo, the tenor, and the bass/baritone.  In Verdi’s work, It is as if these words are less remote, that they come from our humanity rather than as a blessing from above:

Let perpetual light shine upon them, O Lord,
with your saints for ever,
for you are merciful.
Grant them eternal rest, O Lord,
and let perpetual light shine upon them.

I am thinking a lot about those who are no longer here, because September is a month for me of joy tinged with sadness.  There is, after all, the remembrance of September 11, just passed.  But it was today, September 14, that is most present for me.

I suppose that I have been thinking about this day for a couple of weeks, really, beginning with the Facebook memories of our trip to see the eclipse last year.  The other night, as I sat in a classroom doing one of those first-night-of-class-ice-breakers, it was no surprise to me that it was her name that came immediately in response to the question, “Name one person (although there probably have been many) who influenced your spiritual formation.”

And I said, Merrill Farnsworth.  And I said this:  that in the brief time that I had known her, and in her dying, she had done more to nurture my faith than many who had passed my way.

Truthfully, though, if you looked at the short relationship that we had, those few months after I joined the training program at the Haden Institute, you might have thought we had no relationship at all.  We didn’t talk late into the night, like some did with her. I never danced around the labyrinth in the moonlight, as many did.  In fact, I always felt like our conversations were a little out of sync, like we were two cats who could appreciate one another but didn’t really have that much to say, in words at least.  Except for the times we gathered in retreat, we only exchanged a few emails as she read the words I wrote along my training path.  And there were long periods of silence.

It is, for me, almost like she knew the truth that I could not speak.  She knew that I was uncertain.  I was uncertain about the training, about the direction of my life, about well, almost everything.  And she knew that I just had to figure it out.  I had the feeling that she intentionally gave me that space, and it was such a gift.

Now, I know that some of the silence (maybe all of it), had nothing to do with me, but that is so often the way of spirit — the same situation serves two very different purposes for two very different people.  She had her own battles to fight and that was a road that I was not there to walk with her.  But as part of her journey, she gave me a forever group of fellow companions in the form of the group that she constituted at Kanuga that fall day.  And she left me in the care of a beloved, tender, powerful mentor in her place.

Last year, as our group sat together in a circle, in grief, and learned of her passing, I was, in many ways, reborn.  That day, walking together in her beloved labyrinth and hearing the call of the woodpecker, bonds of love were forged in the waters of grief, and intentions and calling became clear.  Most of all, I had a clear view of the me that I think she saw long before I could.

Merrill Farnsworth, you gave me the greatest gift that anyone can gift — you gave me eyes that are more open, ears that are more attuned, and a heart that at last, at least a little bit, is willing to be seen again.  You gave me a chance to embrace my Self, even if for just a moment.  Knowing you changed the course of my life forever.  And knowing that is the only way I have to say thank you to you.

In the tradition of Judaism, today would be the end of the year of mourning (yahrzeit), a time for the ceremony that is known as the unveiling, the end of sitting in remembrance (shiva)   Family and friends gather at the grave site to bless the memorial marker or monument and to remember together.  It is a private, family time, with no rabbis or cantors needed, a time when those gathered offer prayers and their memories together.   It is, for me, a beautiful ceremony of the passage of time, and often includes prayers such as this one, to remind us that the light we have experienced through another is never gone:

There are stars whose light only reaches the earth long after they have fallen apart. There are people whose remembrance gives light in this world, long after they have passed away. This light shines in our darkest nights on the road we must follow. (Hannah Senesch).

I cannot be with my group of friends today, at Kanuga, at the labyrinth, although many who knew Merrill well will be at that place, beginning a new journey with a new group of seekers on the path.  But in my soul, I will be there, too, listening to the woodpecker, laughing and crying at the same time, walking together in silent companionship, and remembering, so that I can always see the light that Merrill continues to shine into my life.

And so, dear unexpected teacher, rest in peace and rise in Glory as the eternal light that you are.  Amen.