“Did you really want to die?"
"No one commits suicide because they want to die."
"Then why do they do it?"
"Because they want to stop the pain.”
― Tiffanie DeBartolo, How to Kill a Rock Star
The first memorial I ever officiated was for an 18 year old who had gone to great lengths to end her own life. It was the most difficult assignment of my professional life (and this was before I had trained as a Celebrant). At the same time, I knew that what it required of me was nothing compared to what it required of her mother and the others who had loved this child her whole short life.
When I was at Stephen Jenkinson's Orphan Wisdom School two weeks ago he described suicide as "a library or a temple," a place we can go "to wonder about the big things" where the lives ended in this fashion can function as "dusty scrolls" instructing the rest of us in "how it is," how whatever we have that passes for a culture is not enough - with the consequence that, after such study, life can never be the same again.
I spent much of this week wondering about the big things, as I served a family whose 27 year old son/ brother/ grandson had killed himself. As I stood before a chapel filled with his weeping family and friends, I cited the words of the young man's favorite author, Hunter S. Thompson, who said this about what he called The Edge: "There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.”
I felt extraordinarily privileged to learn about this beloved young man from the stories shared by his family, and to hold those stories up into the light. It's not my place to share those stories here, but knowing how many of us are affected by suicide, I share some of the words I summoned up for the ceremony that honored him.
"No one commits suicide because they want to die."
"Then why do they do it?"
"Because they want to stop the pain.”
― Tiffanie DeBartolo, How to Kill a Rock Star
The first memorial I ever officiated was for an 18 year old who had gone to great lengths to end her own life. It was the most difficult assignment of my professional life (and this was before I had trained as a Celebrant). At the same time, I knew that what it required of me was nothing compared to what it required of her mother and the others who had loved this child her whole short life.
When I was at Stephen Jenkinson's Orphan Wisdom School two weeks ago he described suicide as "a library or a temple," a place we can go "to wonder about the big things" where the lives ended in this fashion can function as "dusty scrolls" instructing the rest of us in "how it is," how whatever we have that passes for a culture is not enough - with the consequence that, after such study, life can never be the same again.
I spent much of this week wondering about the big things, as I served a family whose 27 year old son/ brother/ grandson had killed himself. As I stood before a chapel filled with his weeping family and friends, I cited the words of the young man's favorite author, Hunter S. Thompson, who said this about what he called The Edge: "There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.”
I felt extraordinarily privileged to learn about this beloved young man from the stories shared by his family, and to hold those stories up into the light. It's not my place to share those stories here, but knowing how many of us are affected by suicide, I share some of the words I summoned up for the ceremony that honored him.
Grief is never an easy burden to bear – and never more so than when it comes suddenly, tragically, with so many questions. Alongside the tremendous love here today is the searing pain of sudden separation. There may be anger, too, and guilt; the search for someone to blame, the search for the answer to the question that can never be fully answered: Why?
He tried avenue after avenue in search of relief, but despaired at the prospect of a future filled with suffering. We wish desperately that he had found another solution, even as we know we must accept that this was the end he chose.
It’s said that when you’re right, nobody remembers; and when you’re wrong, no one forgets. This is not the way we wanted to say goodbye. It’s a terrible tragedy. But an even greater tragedy would be for us to allow him to be defined by this final decision. Our purpose together here today is to look beyond the end to see the full picture of your beloved's life, the legacy of the 27 years we were fortunate to have him among us.
After delivering the eulogy, I quoted from another of the young man's favorite books.
In Lord of the Rings, Pippin says to Gandalf, “I didn't think it would end this way.”
Gandalf replies: “End? No, the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it.”
“What?” Pippin asks Gandalf. “See what?”
“White shores, and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise.”
“Well, that isn't so bad.”
“No,” Gandalf says, “No, it isn't.”
We don’t know whether your beloved is in a “far green country under a swift sunrise.” But we do know that he’s still with us as long as you keep a place set for him at the banquet table of your lives. As the grey rain-curtain of your grief rolls back, you will see those 27 years of his time here as a precious gift that will continue to give to you until your last breath.
In closing, I led participants in the recitation of a Litany of Remembrance, with this introduction: In recognition of the cycle of life and death where the two are inextricably bound, where your beloved's spirit and energy and presence persist even in his absence, let’s join our voices together.
He tried avenue after avenue in search of relief, but despaired at the prospect of a future filled with suffering. We wish desperately that he had found another solution, even as we know we must accept that this was the end he chose.
It’s said that when you’re right, nobody remembers; and when you’re wrong, no one forgets. This is not the way we wanted to say goodbye. It’s a terrible tragedy. But an even greater tragedy would be for us to allow him to be defined by this final decision. Our purpose together here today is to look beyond the end to see the full picture of your beloved's life, the legacy of the 27 years we were fortunate to have him among us.
After delivering the eulogy, I quoted from another of the young man's favorite books.
In Lord of the Rings, Pippin says to Gandalf, “I didn't think it would end this way.”
Gandalf replies: “End? No, the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it.”
“What?” Pippin asks Gandalf. “See what?”
“White shores, and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise.”
“Well, that isn't so bad.”
“No,” Gandalf says, “No, it isn't.”
We don’t know whether your beloved is in a “far green country under a swift sunrise.” But we do know that he’s still with us as long as you keep a place set for him at the banquet table of your lives. As the grey rain-curtain of your grief rolls back, you will see those 27 years of his time here as a precious gift that will continue to give to you until your last breath.
In closing, I led participants in the recitation of a Litany of Remembrance, with this introduction: In recognition of the cycle of life and death where the two are inextricably bound, where your beloved's spirit and energy and presence persist even in his absence, let’s join our voices together.
Litany of Remembrance
In the rising of the sun and in its going down, we remember you.
In the blueness of the sky and in the warmth of summer, we remember you.
In the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of autumn, we remember you.
In the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter, we remember you.
In the opening of buds and in the rebirth of spring, we remember you.
When we are weary and in need of strength, we remember you.
When we are lost and sick at heart, we remember you.
When we need a smile or to share a laugh, we remember you.
When we have joys we yearn to share, we remember you.
We remember you. So long as we live, you too will live, for you are a part of all of us who have known you.
* * *
Litany of Remembrance adapted from Roland B. Gittelsohn. "Love and the searing pain of separation from Sarah York. "When you're right, no one remembers" and "Grief is a heavy burden" adapted from The Free Methodist Church in Canada.
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