Good-bye to all that?

I used to love going to Annual Conference. I used to love the church.

Today I am conflicted about both.

Usually the third week of June, Annual Conference filled four days and sometimes late nights with hard work, evoked high emotions and conflict. We believed we were doing kin-dom work through legislation and resolutions and Robert’s Rules of Order. It was a time for reconnecting with ministry colleagues and former parishioners. There were times of inspirational preaching from our peers, challenging us to leadership, calling us to action, giving opportunities for service and prophetic witness on issues of the day--sexual harassment, gender identity discrimination. There were the years we engaged in Habitat builds, assembled Health Kits for UMCOR, and sat in plenary sessions warmed by a display of quilts for children at risk, encircling the room. Frequently there was time for browsing the book display, making unnecessary purchases for my resource library. In their teenage years, my daughters participated as pages, or as lay members, gaining leadership skills, making impassioned speeches on the floor of the conference. Youth from my churches followed later, growing into leadership positions; those that Larry mentored becoming ordained.

In 35 years I only missed Annual Conference  when I was at San Fransisco School of Theology working on my Doctor of Ministry. I never missed the ordination service, managing the choreography for eight years, being honored to preach once, and always affected and renewed by the affirmation of the commitment to the high calling to teach, preach, lead and serve the people of God called United Methodists. I never skipped a Memorial Service, giving thanks for the saints who proceeded us, who modeled servant ministry, nurtured us and left their legacy of faithfulness. I loved the grandeur of Sunday Morning worship, robed and processing with our clergy sisters and brothers, calculating the seating order to be able to sit between Larry and our friend Ellen Peach, home for Conference from her appointment in Kentucky. It always offered empowering moments, especially hearing my name read and being fixed and sent out for another year of ministry. (Thankful to see the practice return this year, even if not in its familiar setting.)

Last year I was aware when Conference was being held in Portland. I had pangs of missing it. Larry would not have been able to make the trip. I stayed home and preached to the congregation at First UMC of Olympia. It was a lovely day, with the surprise of Ron and Lois Hines in worship, on their way home from Conference, ready to make last minute arrangements for their move from Seattle to California. They treated us, and Virginia Berney, to lunch. It would be the last restaurant meal Larry enjoyed.

By the next Saturday, another infection sent Larry to the hospital, and Sunday morning he went into cardiac arrest. After 15 minutes without a heartbeat, he was resuscitated and placed on a ventilator for ten hours. He recovered enough to reestablish his DNR (do not resuscitate) order. The sore throat from being intubated, the broken ribs added another layer of suffering. He mostly slept. I kept vigil.

When the clergy gathered on July 12th for his Memorial Service, standing before me to sing “The Bishop’s Hymn,” it felt that though we had not been able to attend Annual Conference, the Annual Conference had come to us. My next thought was to realize that it would be this year that Larry would be included in the Memorial Service, and I needed to be there. After years of telling grieving families the finality of such a service would help with healing, allowing them to move on with their new normal, I wondered what Annual Conference would bring me.

Of course, I was there. The date of the service was June 23rd, the exact date of Larry’s last hospital admission, the day his heart could just as easily stopped beating while he was at home, twenty-two hours before his first cardiac arrest. As I engaged conversations with colleagues, the intensely sincere inquiry, “How ARE you?” began to grate. I tried saying, “I’m fine, just fine,” but it rang hollow. I changed to saying, “I’m alright,” hoping  a significant shrug of my shoulders would tell them what they needed to know. The way I felt was changing moment to moment. Nothing I could say would be accurate. I listened to those who made apology for not attending his service last year (not an issue, especially since they had expressed their care in the cards, the phone calls I cherished so much). I felt the shock of someone admitting that Larry’s death was a surprise, since they hadn’t known he was sick (when it had occupied my world exclusively for three and a half years I had forgotten that my trial was not the center of everyone’s universe). I remembered how practiced I was at deflecting conversation about myself and began asking leading questions so that they would talk about themselves (generally everyone’s favorite subject.) I left for the afternoon with a friend. I returned for the service, and was surrounded by my precious family.

The music began. I took a deep breath. I listened. Larry’s name was read. I checked his obituary (which I had insisted on proofreading for the most accurate picture of what a kind, faithful, compassionate man he was). I recognized the pain and loss of others whose spouses had died more unexpectedly and at the age of 69. Their deaths were all too soon. How long will they be remembered? How long before we will be able to forget?

I was not comforted by the sermon, telling me that help comes from unexpected sources, and that death is not to be feared. It was more than an ego thing, or that terrible critical thinking clergy are plagued with.  Perhaps I no longer need to be comforted. Perhaps my community no longer exists.

I found both community and comfort on Sunday morning as I stood outside the Federal Detention Center at SeaTac, offering morning prayer for migrants; those seeking asylum from life threatening situations, suffering separation from their children. I  was there to honor Larry’s memory, to experience the heartbreak he would feel, to remind myself and others that he was an advocate for justice, aware and informing others of this evil six years ago, but with no idea how horrendous what the current administration created would be. If I could say I am glad he is not here to see this, I would. But I am not glad. I am overcome today with sadness.

And yet, as I began to write this, a friend, a colleague of 30 years, listened to the nudging on her heart and called me. She felt I might be sad today. I let the tears fall. I talked. She listened. I was reminded how consistently I have been held in love. I am grateful. Always grateful.