A few people asked me to post the reflection I shared at Sheila Goodwin’s funeral service. What follows is the notes I had made in preparation for speaking.

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The poem that Kimberley read to us ends with the line, “Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die.” But actually, Sheila did die, prompting our minds to wrestle with the myriad of difficult questions: why so soon; where is she now; where is this “other world” or heaven; what does it look like; how long is eternity? In this tension, we swing between extremes—rightly rejecting the simplistic notion of “to die, to sleep; to sleep, perchance to dream” by affirming, “I do not sleep; I am not there.” The Gospel story we just read captures this very struggle and its profound conclusion: “He is not here” – the essence of a person is not found in the grave or the lifeless body.  And yet, it is also no longer with us in the same way it once was—a fact evident in the moment a soul leaves the body, and which is exactly what makes loss so profoundly hard. Yet, as Paul wrote, “What you sow does not come to life unless it dies.” Death is, indeed, a necessary transition—a passage to the imperishable, to the eternal. But if death is a passage, then what is life?

Ecclesiastes (c. 500 BC) describes life, wisely, as a sequence of seasons; though I prefer a more poetic Swedish legend that brings the same points to life quite beautifully, as follows. One bright forest morning—like the many Sheila and George must have enjoyed on their camping trips—a bullfinch asked, “What is life?” A rose answered, “Becoming.” A butterfly replied, “Pleasure and sunshine.” The ant said, “Nothing but toil.” The rain whispered, “Tears.” And the eagle proclaimed, “Striving upwards.” As night fell, humans added, “A search for happiness, and a string of disappointments.” But when after the long, dark night the dawn finally broke, rising pink in the eastern sky, it declared, “Just as I, the dawn, am the start of a new day, so life is the beginning of eternity.”

We know the dawn will come, yet the night often feels unbearably long. “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” the opening words of most funeral services, are far from easy to embrace. It is impossible to stand at a grave and not weep. Yet, Jesus does not command us to suppress the sorrow of loss. Rather, he encourages us not to be troubled by the seeming finality of it. For there is a place awaiting us—a continuation of “becoming,” as the rose said—and most importantly, a promise that we will share it together. For I believe many of us care less about the details of heaven than about one pressing question: will we “see” each other again? I believe we will. As a person of faith, I hold to the hope that love transcends life and death. It bridges heaven and earth. This is what we mean when we say, “God is love.” Love lives forever and allows us to remain in communion with those who have crossed the threshold of eternity ahead of us. “Where I am, there you may be also” means God is with us both here and in heaven. Therefore, our loved ones—who carried God’s spark within their hearts—are also with Him in heaven and remain with us in some way. Sheila’s life had poured itself into her home, her children and grandchildren, and this community. These connections endure. This is our “Galilee,” as the young man dressed in a white robe said to the women, where we “go to see” her now: in our memories, in her loved ones and friends, in the church kitchen, and beyond.

These seemingly mundane, material places become windows into eternity. Heaven and earth intersect in countless ways: in special memories, in moments of unexpected association—a gentle rain, a beam of sunlight, the sparkle of snow (as in today’s poem), but also in an old camping tent or trailer, a tourtier or church-lady sandwich, or the “best Mac and Cheese ever”, a well organized cutlery drawer, or a jigsaw puzzle in progress. Perhaps, next time you bake shortbread, you too will use a ruler to make sure they are all of equal size… These moments reassure us that our connection with our loved ones endure, even as they make grief sharper, especially in the beginning, when everything seems to remind us of our loss. Exactly which memories and associations connect you to Sheila are unique to each of you who had a relationship with her. But the one place where we all become connected is in worship. Perhaps this is why George was drawn to the church within hours of his loss—seeking that connection, even amidst the pain. As our prayer over the bread and wine reminds us, when we sing the ancient words “Holy, holy, holy,” we do so “with angels and archangels and with the whole company of heaven.” (Or in today’s version of the prayer, simply “with all of creation,” which fits nicely with the presence of George and Sheila’s little dog, Lily, at the service). This includes our loved ones, who once worshiped in the pews beside us and now “forever sing that song,” as we join them in brief moments when time and space seems to open up, and the connection between heaven and earth becomes most tangible. Thanks be to God.