Today marks one year. 

It was a day, not unlike today, where the sky threatened a spring thunderstorm. At 1:30 pm, there was a single clap of thunder; ten minutes later he took his final breath. When I (Rev. Emilie) imagined my father’s approaching death, I had hoped we would be with him ~ my mother, brother and myself. Yet, it was our extended family of nursing home caregivers who sat with him and sang him home. 

We all have mile markers. When my father died, I did not realize that I would be welcomed so tenderly into a new circle of belonging: those who have lost a parent. One person after another wrote to me, sharing their own story of love and loss: “We are with you.”

This is spiritual care. 

Over the last few months, our chaplains have been shaping their vision of spiritual care at Beacon. What is compelling is their sense of inclusion. All of us, at different points in our lives, need care, and all of us possess the gifts to care for one another. That’s what I read in the cards and emails and text messages sent after my father’s death: we know your loss, because we have been there, and now we are here for you.

Loss and suffering are a part of life; no one is immune. It’s compounded by the unnecessary suffering that our systems are inflicting upon us, as we mourn the tragic loss of Daunte Wright, as we learn about another mass shooting, as we await the Derek Chauvin verdict, as COVID-19 variants continue to wreak havoc, and as we witness the collapse of our Earth. All in one week. It is our collective suffering.

My colleague Cameron Trimble reminded me of a story told by environmental activist Joanna Macy about working with a community devastated by the Chernobyl catastrophe who struggled to talk about the suffering. It felt too risky, too vulnerable. Joanna Macy shared with them:

“I have no wisdom with which to meet your grief. But I can share this with you: After the war that almost destroyed their country, the German people determined they would do anything to spare their children the suffering they had known. They worked hard to provide them a safe, rich life. They created an economic miracle. They gave their children everything—except for one thing. They did not give them their broken hearts. And their children have never forgiven them.”

When we join a religious community like Beacon, we acknowledge that all of us are broken-hearted. Not broken but broken-hearted. A community like ours is the gift we offer ourselves and a lesson for future generations: this is what it means to be human.

Let us not forget that being human also means that all of us are capable of extending compassion to one another. Extending compassion is not the work only of experts, ministers, and chaplains. Our broken hearts are made whole by the care extended to another. Yes, we might mess up, from time to time. Nevertheless, we all have the capacity to extend compassion and to grow in our capacities. It is, after all, the promise we make to another as a faith community.

I can’t think of anything more beautiful than that. This week we will need one another. So, Tuli and I, along with our entire chaplain team, encourage you to reach out to another person. Share your broken-heartedness and ask them theirs.

Today I will travel to my hometown with my own broken heart. The minister of my home congregation will gather with my mom and me outside in the park adjacent to their church, with my brother via FaceTime. When I return to New Jersey, later in the day, I will sit with a cup of tea, listening to my father’s playlist, and read your cards and emails and text messages, all of which I have kept for this day. I will read your words, and I will know that I am not alone. Thank you for the care you have extended to me. Thank you for welcoming me into the circle of belonging.