A strangely gentle sadness

We’ve had sightings of mountain lions around the Ranch. A friend from St. A’s, who accepts me as an adopted daughter, made me promise not to hike alone. I know she loves me, and doesn’t want me to get eaten—I think we both knew I’d break that promise. I kept it for about a week. Yesterday, I took a fresh batch of flags to the peace pole. I left a prayer for Rob. It felt right; I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. It is a quiet, calm, deeply peaceful, prayerful place. I held his memory, and my community, in my heart as I wrote on a strip of yellow fabric with a Sharpie, tied it to the pole among years’ worth of many people’s prayers, and watched it flutter in the wind.

I’d left a prayer there a week before, at the close of our parish weekend, out on a wander with these same friends. I remember bursting with thanksgiving for all the blessings of this summer at the Ranch, this community in the city, this sweet, sweet life.

I e-mailed a friend on Sunday, another member of the East Bay contingent. Knowing she wasn’t feeling well, I asked her for coffee when I get back to Berkeley. She told me she understood about family time.

That’s love. And this is us. Rob’s last gift to me is a real appreciation for this church. I’m redefining community, family, home. I think we’re all appreciating each other more. I’m realizing how deeply I belong here. These people who have loved me, encouraged me, laughed with me, and held me while I cried on them—have meant every bit of it. And I mean it right back. All last week, while living and working in a place so close to heaven, all I could think of was, “My family’s in San Francisco, and I want to be with them.”

Rob was always there, unless he wasn’t well enough. His presence was light, gentle, generous, and mischievous. He had an air of, “I know what you’re up to”—and we always knew he loved us. I will miss him in a thousand little ways. A bunch of us meet for coffee at Creighton’s before church; last week, I couldn’t steal his extra napkins. I couldn’t hear him make some little comment, barely above a whisper, that would leave the rest of us roaring.

We told stories on Sunday, in place of a sermon. We shared his memory among us. His presence was there with us—but I’m still not used to the idea that he will not be.

I know that Rob's okay now; I know he is surrounded by Love and limitlessness. I know it was his time. I know all the saints are dancing.

I still miss him. We, still miss him. And we will for a long time.

For Rob, pray with me

I wrote and posted this here this morning. I'm on the writing team, and assistant webmaster; it was my turn to publish prayers for the week's news, yesterday. I want to share them here.

It’s Friday morning. I was supposed to write these prayers last night. I completely forgot.

I’m working at a retreat center this summer, two hours from home. Two days ago, my associate priest died of congestive heart failure. We all knew it was coming; he’d been battling bone cancer for some time. He died surrounded by his family, members of our church community, and the Franciscan brothers with whom he lived. He left this world in a circle of enormous love.

And he left his love with us. I miss my home so much I can taste it—at the same time, I am so proud of them for giving him such a gentle, attentive passing.

These are the thoughts, and the prayers, that I have.
For the soul of Rob, and for all who leave this world in peace, love, and light:
We give thanks to you.

For all who die in violence, and too young:
We give thanks to you.

For all who wake up every morning and eat a thoughtless breakfast:
We give thanks to you.

For all who must struggle for food and shelter:
We give thanks to you.

For all who sleep in silence and peace:
We give thanks to you.

For all whose dreams are broken by gunfire:
We give thanks to you.

For all who live their lives surrounded by love:
We give thanks to you.

For all who are alone, even in a crowd of people:
We give thanks to you.

For all who give their lives daily in the service of others:
We give thanks to you.

For all who don’t know where to begin:
We give thanks to you.

We lift up these prayers, and the prayers of all who pray, in every language and without words.
Amen.

Grief, and awe

My associate priest, Rob Roy Rhudy, died yesterday afternoon. He was in his late 70's, had been battling bone cancer, and was overtaken by congestive heart failure.

He was a soft-spoken, gentle soul, with the driest sense of humor on the planet. Easter before last, I was serving. I was wearing an alb, and carrying a torch (candle). We sing a really rousing closing song on Easter; I forgot what I was wearing, and what I was holding, and clapped my hands--thus getting wax all over me.

I was slinking around, looking for an Altar Guild member to confess to, when I bumped into Rob. I asked him, "Now what should I do?" He answered me quietly and completely deadpan, save for a twinkle in his eye:

"Well, you're going to hell now."

We all loved him. I'm working this summer at a retreat center 70 miles from San Francisco, and couldn't participate in the vigil that my community kept for him. But everyone who reported back to me told me that he was surrounded by love. People from church took two-hour shifts, around the clock, to be with him. Our harpist played for him. The Franciscan brothers, with whom he lived, were with him. His nieces were with him.

Last night, after he died, friends gathered at one of their houses. They connected me by speaker phone, and we all read Compline for Rob. This impulse to pray--and their desire to figure out a way to include me after I sobbed on the phone that I needed people to pray with--is a piece of the love we all share. That same love that celebrated with me last weekend at our parish retreat (which happened where I work), when I got up and told a story to all of them, completely confidently and without ever once tripping over my mouth.

I know what lifted Rob as he left us. And I know that same beam of light would be focused on any of us in a millisecond, if we needed it.

I remain in awe.