Elegy: A Homily for Richard, by Sarah Young

From his place in the corner of the breakfast nook,
he told Susan how to fry fish–when he could no longer cook

because of shortness of breath, and an even shorter oxygen cord.
When the food was fixed, he’d thank the Lord

in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost—
which took him back, three times a day, to when life had been most

fulfilling—to when he’d worn the collar and seen souls
pass him by in procession, and all his goals

had been the wellness of their hearts. He’d answered their questions, addressed their maybe’s
blessed holy communion, baptized their babies,

married them, counseled them, wrote homilies into the night,
visited the sick, given last rites.

He catechized their children too, patient indeed—
even toward those slow and of unique need.

Once he brought as catechumen, a child
whose needs it seemed could not be reconciled

to the knowledge that she must state
to take the baptismal pledge, but Rich said grace would compensate

for what she could not comprehend.
And that’s where we are left now, at this ending,

Now Richard’s gone to God, and we are looking for grace
To understand that he is better off, though we can’t see his face

Or hear his voice boom from the pew,
Or echo up the stairs at home, “Susan! I need you!”

From his place in the corner of the breakfast nook,
Let us take down in memory’s book

The moments where he sat with his daughter–
The room filled with reminiscent laughter

Over “Bride of Frankenstein” scenes–
And the black-and-white in betweens

Of childhood times in another place.
Now, something of that child, and something of him, still lives in her heart and on her face.

From his place in the corner of the breakfast nook
Where he watched CNN and browsed Tic-Tok,

Where he’d pet his dogs, read the paper, and grump
Over conservatives, hypocrisy, and God-help-us-all: Trump.

Just one of the myriad ways the world was out of his grip
Those last years—why it all seemed to slip

Away. The day-to-day doings that gave him pleasure—
The Christmas tree, and the gatherings together,

The Easter Vigils, and the alleluia’s clamor born from Lenten hush.
Now next year, we’ll pray: Richard, pray for us.

Shall we light a candle and gently look
To his place in the corner of the breakfast nook?

It was not but a room or two away
That this friend and father slipped through the fingers of day

And when Susan came to hold his hand,
His breath was still. Yet she felt him stand

Nearby, because he would not leave
Her there alone to grieve.

From his place in the corner of the breakfast nook–
Empty now–sweet Jesus, look

Upon us who are left behind, with thoughts of Richard on the mind.
We thank you for his life.

Remind us to so spend our days,
That when we leave an empty space,

The world may wonder at the place

Of one who’s gone from grace to grace.
Amen.

A hymn of going home

O when I climb, o when I climb, this mountain of the Lord!
Oh when I leap from yonder height, and break this mortal cord!
It’s not to die I cast myself into the mortal air,
But it’s to live, for in that void, God’s arms will catch me there!

Then I’ll be caught, in moments brought into His loving arms;
Then I’ll be safe and sheltered deep from the devil and his harms—
Beneath the wings of God above, I’ll find my sweet retreat,
And evermore, I’ll find my rest there at the Savior’s feet.

The beauty oh! The beauty of my Jesus’ blessed face,
For how I’ve longed to look upon Him, while dwelling in this place.
While I laid sick, I feared to leave my body’s fleshly home,
But now I could not leave the grace to which I’ve safely come.

Goodbye, farewell! O gentle loves, I’ve left for paradise;
Though you may grieve, still please believe, I see with fairer eyes!
And though I’m hid beyond the veil and caught up to the clouds,
Please know that I am witness to your life, and I am proud.

So do not call me to return, but join me as you may,
When you have lived your fullest life and known your longest day.
Do not fear that I’ll be lonely while I wait for you to rise,
For a thousand years is like a day up here in these bright skies!

“Now live your life—it is a gift!” I can say now life is past;
Never take for granted love or friendship—those will last!
Know I’m happy and I’m well, that I’m peaceful, that I’ve come
To the river, to my rest, to my Lord, and I am home.