Homily for Tish Womack memorial service
In planning this service, I worked with Dean Timothy (at Christ Church Cathedral, Nashville, TN), working out the details including how I would participate. He was pleased when I said that I would like to participate as a deacon, as clergy in the Episcopal Church. I explained to him that in the days before my mother died, my ministry turned to her, my brother, my sister, and other family members present, providing them pastoral care when possible. I sought to bring a quiet, calm peace to an emotionally difficult time, and to witness the transition from life to death as a holy, sacred, and loving time. So, we felt it was appropriate for me to continue that ministry and deliver the homily today, and I am grateful to Dean Timothy for this opportunity.
But, this isn’t about me. I may be involved in this story, but it is not my story.
I first got to know my mother in late May, 1963, and while I don’t remember our first encounter, I have heard that it was painful. Over the next years and decades, I learned a lot from her, and was loved as her oldest son. When she was in high school and after, she couldn’t stand the new Rock N Roll that played on the radio in the late 1950s, but she did love classical music. That led her and my father to get season tickets to the orchestra wherever they lived, and they dragged myself, my sister, and my brother to at least two concerts a year, to be cultured. I actually liked them, and developed a taste for orchestral music that lasts to this day. She earned a bachelor of science in Medical Technology in college and worked in clinical and research labs before I was born. Something about that resonated in me as an adult, and I did the same, working as a Medical Technologist and then as an academic research technologist years ago. Those were two gifts that she gave me in my life, and a way of connecting with her. In her life, Mom had a no-nonsense view of things and wanted a straight answer, so you had to have your facts together and not think you could BS your way through an explanation or an argument. She could be persnickety, a favorite word of my parish’s Rector, which meant that things had to be done or organized just so, and it was a force to be reckoned with for my siblings, my wife, and myself as we cared for her during her illness.
Mom was not afraid of technology, and even in her last months embraced new uses for it as she learned how to use her cell phone to keep track of her health and cancer treatments. But it was always on her own terms, and if she didn’t think certain technologies were relevant, she wasn’t interested. She was not a luddite, but a purposeful, intentional consumer in all things. She loved my father dearly, and missed him every day of the 9 years that she lived without him. She loved all of her grandchildren as they were and are, and made a connection with my daughter, who would visit her during the holidays from western New York, and visit her on the island of Monhegan in Maine. Mom visited the island every year for 18 years for rest and renewal, and was considered “island family” by the lodging company that handled her cottage rental. Mom was an observant Episcopalian and a member of this Cathedral Chapter, but her spirituality was private, between herself and God and few others. I believe that she came closest to God’s presence in the world while on Monhegan, not distracted by the cares and stress of life. She gave her time and talent to the League of Women Voters and to the This N That thrift shop that supports the St. Luke’s Community House in northwest Nashville. She gave of herself one more time in death, donating her body to science, which is why we don’t have a casket or an urn present. Her cremains will be interred later in Louisville, in Oldtown, KY, and scattered in the ocean off of Monhegan.
Tish was the youngest of my grandparent’s two daughters, and my father was the youngest of three in his family. That means that she is the last of her generation in my family to die, now leaving me, my brother, and my sister orphans. I have heard others mention being orphans in this way, and it is not to take away from children raised in institutions but instead to recognize that we are now without parents in the world, no one who has known us all of our lives, who knows us deeply, who we can turn to for guidance and comfort. But I look at my 10 cousins and see that being an orphan is not as scary, not as anxiety-ridden as I would have expected. They are not living a life that is better or worse than before, but one that is different. That’s because as we focus on the part of the family tree that dies, we forget about the family that continues to grow, spreading out new branches and putting down new roots. Those branches, and those roots support us in times like this. The family, then, is like a living tree that shelters, and supports its members, even as it changes shape and size. In the Gospel of John, Jesus said to Nicodemus that we have to be reborn to see the kingdom of God. I find that I have been reborn, not spiritually as Jesus says, but born into a new life where my mother is no longer present in this world. It too, was a painful birth, accompanied by sadness, grief, and tears, but that doesn’t mean that that will be all that I experience in this new life. As with Good Friday, I have to experience this dark time in order to appreciate the hope that comes from Jesus’ resurrection at Easter, the renewal of life that comes from death, the new growth of the tree that is my family, and the new life I am now leading. Death does not have the last word. Death is not the end of our story. Death does not destroy the living tree. Life is everlasting.
My ministry involves serving in a parish in Louisville doing what I do here today, but it also includes volunteering with the Society of St. Joseph of Arimathea. The SSJOA is a Roman Catholic volunteer group that provides funeral services for the poor who can’t afford burial in a commercial cemetery, burials for the homeless with no resources and estranged from family, for those addicted to drugs or alcohol who die alone, and for those who are the last to die in their family. More than half of the people we bury have no family or friends who come, so we who gather become their family, loving them unconditionally regardless of who they were or what life they led. It is our expression of God’s compassion, mercy, and perfect love for them, and an expression of hope that they will live in the presence of God free of pain and trouble. To serve them one last time is to truly love our neighbors as ourselves, and to respect their dignity where no one else had.
I tell you all of that so that you understand why it is so wonderful to me to see you all here today, to remember my mother and celebrate her life, and express your grief and your love for her in your own ways. Each of you here meant something to Tish, and she meant something to you, and this is what brings us together today as her family. It is in those relationships with her that we find the meaning of her life, and that meaning is the source of our grief, our sense of loss. The tragedy of her death from cancer can’t take that meaning away from her or from us, because she was so much more than her illness, and we are so much more than our limitations and diseases. We can find comfort knowing that our suffering and grief are understood by God through Jesus’ crucifixion, and that we are not alone, not abandoned, not without family or friends. We take that love shown to us by God through Jesus’ life to lift each other up in compassion, mercy, love, and dignity. We walk together, with an awareness that Mom has been lifted up from her pain and suffering and into a life where there is no sadness and no tears. Her life continues in a way that we can’t comprehend, and this is a holy mystery to us who continue to live our lives in this world.
As we walk together through this time of grief, we will miss our mother, our grandmother, our aunt, our friend in so many ways. Let us celebrate her life, and embrace our new life without her presence among us. She is still with us in our hearts and our memories, and may those memories be a blessing to us all.
But, this isn’t about me. I may be involved in this story, but it is not my story.
I first got to know my mother in late May, 1963, and while I don’t remember our first encounter, I have heard that it was painful. Over the next years and decades, I learned a lot from her, and was loved as her oldest son. When she was in high school and after, she couldn’t stand the new Rock N Roll that played on the radio in the late 1950s, but she did love classical music. That led her and my father to get season tickets to the orchestra wherever they lived, and they dragged myself, my sister, and my brother to at least two concerts a year, to be cultured. I actually liked them, and developed a taste for orchestral music that lasts to this day. She earned a bachelor of science in Medical Technology in college and worked in clinical and research labs before I was born. Something about that resonated in me as an adult, and I did the same, working as a Medical Technologist and then as an academic research technologist years ago. Those were two gifts that she gave me in my life, and a way of connecting with her. In her life, Mom had a no-nonsense view of things and wanted a straight answer, so you had to have your facts together and not think you could BS your way through an explanation or an argument. She could be persnickety, a favorite word of my parish’s Rector, which meant that things had to be done or organized just so, and it was a force to be reckoned with for my siblings, my wife, and myself as we cared for her during her illness.
Mom was not afraid of technology, and even in her last months embraced new uses for it as she learned how to use her cell phone to keep track of her health and cancer treatments. But it was always on her own terms, and if she didn’t think certain technologies were relevant, she wasn’t interested. She was not a luddite, but a purposeful, intentional consumer in all things. She loved my father dearly, and missed him every day of the 9 years that she lived without him. She loved all of her grandchildren as they were and are, and made a connection with my daughter, who would visit her during the holidays from western New York, and visit her on the island of Monhegan in Maine. Mom visited the island every year for 18 years for rest and renewal, and was considered “island family” by the lodging company that handled her cottage rental. Mom was an observant Episcopalian and a member of this Cathedral Chapter, but her spirituality was private, between herself and God and few others. I believe that she came closest to God’s presence in the world while on Monhegan, not distracted by the cares and stress of life. She gave her time and talent to the League of Women Voters and to the This N That thrift shop that supports the St. Luke’s Community House in northwest Nashville. She gave of herself one more time in death, donating her body to science, which is why we don’t have a casket or an urn present. Her cremains will be interred later in Louisville, in Oldtown, KY, and scattered in the ocean off of Monhegan.
Tish was the youngest of my grandparent’s two daughters, and my father was the youngest of three in his family. That means that she is the last of her generation in my family to die, now leaving me, my brother, and my sister orphans. I have heard others mention being orphans in this way, and it is not to take away from children raised in institutions but instead to recognize that we are now without parents in the world, no one who has known us all of our lives, who knows us deeply, who we can turn to for guidance and comfort. But I look at my 10 cousins and see that being an orphan is not as scary, not as anxiety-ridden as I would have expected. They are not living a life that is better or worse than before, but one that is different. That’s because as we focus on the part of the family tree that dies, we forget about the family that continues to grow, spreading out new branches and putting down new roots. Those branches, and those roots support us in times like this. The family, then, is like a living tree that shelters, and supports its members, even as it changes shape and size. In the Gospel of John, Jesus said to Nicodemus that we have to be reborn to see the kingdom of God. I find that I have been reborn, not spiritually as Jesus says, but born into a new life where my mother is no longer present in this world. It too, was a painful birth, accompanied by sadness, grief, and tears, but that doesn’t mean that that will be all that I experience in this new life. As with Good Friday, I have to experience this dark time in order to appreciate the hope that comes from Jesus’ resurrection at Easter, the renewal of life that comes from death, the new growth of the tree that is my family, and the new life I am now leading. Death does not have the last word. Death is not the end of our story. Death does not destroy the living tree. Life is everlasting.
My ministry involves serving in a parish in Louisville doing what I do here today, but it also includes volunteering with the Society of St. Joseph of Arimathea. The SSJOA is a Roman Catholic volunteer group that provides funeral services for the poor who can’t afford burial in a commercial cemetery, burials for the homeless with no resources and estranged from family, for those addicted to drugs or alcohol who die alone, and for those who are the last to die in their family. More than half of the people we bury have no family or friends who come, so we who gather become their family, loving them unconditionally regardless of who they were or what life they led. It is our expression of God’s compassion, mercy, and perfect love for them, and an expression of hope that they will live in the presence of God free of pain and trouble. To serve them one last time is to truly love our neighbors as ourselves, and to respect their dignity where no one else had.
I tell you all of that so that you understand why it is so wonderful to me to see you all here today, to remember my mother and celebrate her life, and express your grief and your love for her in your own ways. Each of you here meant something to Tish, and she meant something to you, and this is what brings us together today as her family. It is in those relationships with her that we find the meaning of her life, and that meaning is the source of our grief, our sense of loss. The tragedy of her death from cancer can’t take that meaning away from her or from us, because she was so much more than her illness, and we are so much more than our limitations and diseases. We can find comfort knowing that our suffering and grief are understood by God through Jesus’ crucifixion, and that we are not alone, not abandoned, not without family or friends. We take that love shown to us by God through Jesus’ life to lift each other up in compassion, mercy, love, and dignity. We walk together, with an awareness that Mom has been lifted up from her pain and suffering and into a life where there is no sadness and no tears. Her life continues in a way that we can’t comprehend, and this is a holy mystery to us who continue to live our lives in this world.
As we walk together through this time of grief, we will miss our mother, our grandmother, our aunt, our friend in so many ways. Let us celebrate her life, and embrace our new life without her presence among us. She is still with us in our hearts and our memories, and may those memories be a blessing to us all.
Pete, I watched the Memorial Service for your mother and am so happy for your role in it. I agree your mother as well as your father are still with us in spirit. I knew your father after better than your mother because we spent hours working together on the DeBard, Seaton family history. The many times I was with your mother before and after your father's death I came to realize what a wonderful person she was. You and your family have being in my thoughts and prayers for weeks and will continue to be a part of my talks with our Savior.
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