grieving a miscarriage

I've got a new piece up on Boundless about grieving a miscarriage. To read it, go to www.boundless.org.

a candle for Eric

It's been a week since Eric Iliff's funeral. I am part of that cloud of witnesses who continue to struggle and reflect over his death and its implications.

Here's the story of how I ended up at the funeral--a stranger among the mourners:

A week ago, I headed out to Burbank to make an "addendum" confession. In the car, I called Amber for my daily dose of her (if you've read her blog, you can imagine why I need her so). She told me that our friend Rachel was headed to Eric's funeral in Normal. This conversation intensified an earlier desire to go to the funeral, although I did not know Eric or his family.

I wanted to be there for reasons I can not articulate completely. I ache for Eric, for his family, and for everyone who is struggling now. And although I don't know the family, we are all family in the Church--even those of us who don't know each other yet.

By the time I arrived in Burbank, I had begun to formulate a plan, and Fr. John had given his blessing for me to make the trip with Natalie while he cared for Anna at home. There were, of course, a few small details I had not yet figured out.

"You see, I'm not exactly dressed for a funeral," I said glancing down at my jeans and red sweatshirt, after I'd arrived at the rectory. "Well," said Miriam, "Perhaps we should go up and look through my closet." I found a red sweater and black skirt that fit nicely. When I was changed and ready, Fr. Luke arrived with directions he'd printed out from mapquest.

On the long drive up, I conversed with myself about what the heck I was doing. If I had to turn in a comment card for myself, I'd surely write, "Seems to be getting a bit crazier each day." And yet I felt magnetically drawn to the funeral, and this feeling, irrational and unexplainable as it was, only intensified as I drove.

I went through a mental checklist: Computer? Check (I was on deadline for an article). Powercord? Check. Extra diapers and clothes for N? Check. Sling? Check. Toothbrush and paste? Mmmm. Wallet? Oh, I hope and hope it is somewhere in this car. The nagging fear about my wallet tugged at me on the long ride through the infinitely flat cornfields.

And then Rachel called to tell me that she was stuck in Pennsylvania because of a blizzard (all flights out of NYC were also canceled). She said that the other two carloads of seminarians would be driving all night to get there. What else can go wrong? I asked myself as I started to lose courage.

When I finally arrived at the funeral home, I began to see the rightness of being there. During the Panakhida a lady glanced at Natalie in the sling. "A baby," she said, "There is hope." Natalie did not seem to understand that one is supposed to be solemn at a funeral, and she cooed and gurgled while everyone wept around her. After the service, Fr. James Ellison checked me into a hotel and I wrote him a check (saving the day for the wallet-less me).

In the church parking lot the next day, I was shocked by the amount of cars in comparison to the shoe-box-sized church. I opened the door and could barely squeeze in with Natalie in the sling. We were body to body, all these people who loved Eric and were shaken by his death. I spotted Deacon Alex right away, with Josiah at his feet, and then I saw Nathan, eyes bloodshot from the all night drive.

Fr. John was in white vestments, and the choir was singing words that didn't always fit perfectly. A little later, Eric's picture tumbled to the ground, and it was swiftly picked up and kissed as if it were an icon. Through tears, Fr. John spoke about the darkness we were in. "But in a few short weeks," he said, "It will be Pascha, we will light our candles off of each other and the light will spread."

At the end of the service I made my way up to the family. I thought about Nate Schroeder's funeral, a little more than a year ago, also in central Illinois. I remembered how most people kissed and touched Nate. I wanted to kiss Eric's casket. I was afraid, though, because I knew he had died violently. And then I remembered about the cross and how our Lord had died violently as well. I stepped forward, then, and kissed the casket. As I made my way toward the family, I saw Julia, with Esme in her arms, bending over Eric, her lips brushing the lid of his casket.



sushi from heaven

A few weeks back, on a frigid day, I was walking in turbo-mode in the interest of preserving my fingertips. I was stopped by a man on the corner, selling his poetry. He told me that he needed $30 for a room. "I'm so cold," he said.

His eyes were bloodshot, his skin red and bruised from the wind, and one side of his nose was running. I decided that if he wasn't going to spend the money honorably, that would be his problem. I handed him a dollar, which he took. I hesitated a moment. I knew he'd be out there peddling poetry for a long time, and what would become of his nose and ears?

I forked over all the cash I had--a whopping eleven dollars. He took the money gratefully and I headed to campus, where I was planning to spend a few hours working on a book proposal and munching on sushi. As soon as I stepped away I realized with horror what I'd done--I didn't have my wallet with me and I'd given away all my money. I quickly did the equations in my head: zero cash + zero cash = no sushi.

As a nursing mother, my hunger tends to be extreme, and I tend to fixate on certain foods. It was a sushi day, all the way, and I'd been banking on it to get me out the door. But here I was, with no wallet and no cash, headed to campus.

As I walked, I thought about the divine economy and the possibility that God might just make a deposit into my tummy account. On campus, I headed over to the Div. School, hoping to find my husband.

I didn't find him, but I ran into one of his peers, who was carrying a bin full of food. I cleared my throat, "Hey Adrian, do you happen to have some leftovers?" He nodded and smiled, digging through the the box. He coaxed out a plastic container. "Would you like some sushi?"

winter to spring

"That's you and me in the winter."--Anna Pepper

"That's you and me in the Spring."--Anna Pepper