All Hallow: Everything Belongs To Him

Sugar Rush Weekend 

For a little over a decade now, I’ve referred to the days surrounding Halloween as “Sugar Rush Weekend” not only for the inevitable  *plastic pumpkins overflowing with fun-sized candy, but also for the two regulation birthday cakes due after the last car trunk or house has been visited.

Today is Halloween. All Saints Eve

Twenty-one years ago, my son was born on All Saints Day. (Tomorrow)

Thirteen years ago, my daughter was born on All Souls’ Day. (Two days from now) 

This holiday season has long been on our family radar for more than costume parties and pumpkins. I named my children with purpose and the significance of the days they were born are of special  interest to me, too. 

Somewhere along the line, I had a fuzzy misconception that All Saints and All Souls days, as well as  Dia de los Muertos  must serve primarily for ancestor worship. 

Thanks to the pace and depth afforded by homeschooling, with its invitation to dive deep into curious realms,  combined with time to grow spiritually and to internalize what freedom in Christ really means,  my understanding of these days transformed over time; indeed all of my days have.  

Now, I look on this season as a very unique space in my year to celebrate the life I have been given,  the lives I have been entrusted with, and all the  lives that have invested in me. 

That the three day run also involves enough sugar to make a batch of Mexican sugar skulls  is just the brand of irony I enjoy. 

But I’m not here to defend a holiday, its history or the way it is celebrated (or not celebrated.) 

 I’m here to tell you about the funeral I attended yesterday. 

Worth The Living

My childhood Sunday School teacher passed away rather suddenly last week. At age 71,  and after overcoming a lifetime of chronic illness, I think we all expected she’d just go on forever. We do that with people, don’t we? Until we are abruptly reminded. 

And so, the news took us all by surprise. Most of us hadn’t even known she was battling more illness. She wouldn’t have let on. She never did. She was resilient and faced life’s shadows with determined joy. 

An entire lifetime – probably two- passed from the era when she taught our little Caravan group at church. On one occasion at least, we bumped into each other at random in the town I lived in when I was married. I want to say it actually happened twice, though, at the same little backwater bbq joint. 

It’s one of those lesser mentioned  losses when somebody dies. We can no longer check our memories against theirs for accuracy. 

We wish we would’ve paid closer attention. 

We reconnected when I moved back home following my divorce, and stayed in touch more consistently then, thanks in large part to social media (even though we now lived only a few miles apart) 

She ordered several copies of one of my books. I dropped them by her work one day and got the chance to hug her neck. She asked about me with genuine care and when I signed her books, I knew she was proud of me. She told me as much, but I felt it emanating from her, too. 

 I’m grateful for those small moments of reclaimed time with this lady who had loved me as a child and continued to support me all these years later.

With each loss, we inherit the sorrow of wishing there had been more time; of wishing we had been better stewards. 

We wish we could’ve known how little time was left.

If only we had known… then we would’ve… but it matters not.  We don’t have more time.  We won’t. 

Ties That Bind

I slipped into the funeral home’s little chapel on the first stanza of  “Because He Lives”

Momma was saving a seat for me. Familiar, somber faces from my childhood flashed a smile of acknowledgement across the aisle. 

“…Because He lives

All fear is gone…” 

After the music, the preacher shared collected memories of our departed friend. We laughed at those recognizable traits we’d all grown to love about her. We were reminded anew of the extent of our loss.  Her laughter and tenacity now only accessible through memories. 

During this eulogy, I learned tiny new details about my teacher.  They were unsurprising and just what you’d expect:  little stories I wish that I had known sooner.  Not because they would change anything, only because I could have appreciated those things about her,  with her.

Each new revelation aligned seamlessly with her character. Of course, she had a special capacity for children on the spectrum. Of course, she carried care packages in her car for homeless and hurting people.

But also, with a cruel twist of timing, I recognized many of her characteristics align with my own tendencies. 

Were they directly related? Had I become like her in certain ways because of her influence? We can no longer compare notes on this side of Heaven. We missed the opportunity to ride around town handing out snacks together. But I recognize this, we shared a common faith and a willingness to be transformed by it.

Indeed, it is the common denominator of all those familiar faces from yesterday. 

 The preacher talked about peace and a hopeful eternity. Mrs. Jackie had both. And she wanted the same for everyone she knew. 

“In Christ Alone” played and then, on this, our own asynchronistic day of the dead,  we stood in reverence as her earthly shell passed us by in a box. 

“…What heights of love, what depths of peace

When fears are stilled, when strivings cease…”

Gemstones And Gravesides

Those of us who knew Mrs. Jackie from the same church long ago congregated at the back of the chapel for a few moments. We shared memories of the ways she made us feel loved. I wasn’t the only student whose art she supported all these years later. 

When we lose someone, we are left to celebrate their life without their presence. Like a gemstone glinting light at different angles, we bring our stories together, hoping to catch one more glimpse of their reflection.

I looked at these beloved faces, all these lives that have invested in my own.  A couple who also taught me as a child; my friend’s dad who endured many sleepover shenanigans without losing his patience- ever.  My own momma.  

All these memories. So much love.

Yet, we will bury each other. 

We  will meet again and again in chapels and at gravesides. We know it,  despite our repeated protest that we must stop meeting like this. 

We will pass around memories,  stored away all these years like so much bread and wine. 

It will be bittersweet. We know this, too. Like sugar skulls and lime. 

We will wish we could remember the stories just right. 

We will wish there had been more time. 

And we will wish they could be back with us, to see all this beautiful glinting light they’ve left behind . 

But look! They are here now, and so are you. 

Whatever your beliefs about this holiday, this is the day that the Lord has made,  and He has made his light to shine on us.

For some, this day will be the last and only day left.

So then, while we have the time, let us make the most of our living and let us let our  light shine. 

Trick or Treat, Smell My Footnotes  

* As a Christian homeschooling family, we grew through many seasons of understanding and interpretation of this controversial holiday. Over the years, we have abstained altogether, attended alternative church harvest events out of conviction, attended church harvest events out of convenience, attended community parties and entered chili competitions, gone old fashioned trick or treating in costume and one year, we even bought the kids a full bag of the candy of their choice in exchange for staying home. I’m too old a dog to engage in debate and wish you safe passage on your high horse if any of this twists your hanky. Please do not make me draw correlations between Jesus and trick or treat… (“Behold, I stand at the door and knock…” )

**Watching Coco with my daughter when she was younger also deepened my appreciation for the reverence intended by these marked days, regardless of the way some express it.