The funeral for Ellen Crawford

 The funeral for

Ellen Crawford

(March 12, 1955 – Feb. 27, 2023)

Boulger Funeral Home

Fargo, North Dakota

Monday March 6, 2023

  As I said at the beginning of the service, It is a real honor for me to do this service for Ellen today.

 For those of you who might not know, I am a poet, in addition to being a priest.

 I am the author 13 books of poems, including one that was just accepted the day Ellen died.

 And Ellen was a proofreader and editor on my book, Fargo, 1957.

 She was also an Episcopalian.

 And that is also how our lives intersected.

 Well that, and the fact that we knew so many of the same people.

 I had the great honor of being Ellen’s priest at the end of her life, over these last few weeks.

 We shared Communion, I prayed with her and anointed.

 And I was with her about an hour or so before she died last Monday, at which time I anointed her and prayed the prayers at the death of time.

 So, as I said, it an honor for me both as a poet and a priest to officiate at this service for a fellow writer.

 This service is a service in which we celebrate and give thanks for Ellen and for all the good she did in this world.

 And there is so much to give thanks for.

 This strong, independent, sometimes opinionated woman.

 And it has been so wonderful to hear about all the people who admired and respect her and just enjoyed her.

 To hear all these stories and to hear the wonderful things people have to say is a big sign that a person made an impact in people’s lives.

 And Ellen obviously did that.

 But it is these stories that we need to hold close as move from here.

 As a writer, as a person to whom stories were important, any of who are writers know:

 These stories, these words we share are our legacy.

 They outlive us.

 And they keep us alive.

 These stories we share keep Ellen alive.

 And they are her legacy.

 We need to hold them close.

 We need share them.

 We need to continue the story.

 Yes, it is a sad day today for those of us who knew and cared for Ellen .

 But we do have our consolations today.

 Our consolation today is that all that was good in her, all that was talented and charming and full of life in her—all of that is not lost today.

 It is here, with us, who remember her and who cared for her.

 The consolation we can take away from today is that, all of the difficult things in her life is over for her. 

 She is now, in this moment, fully and completely herself.

 She is whole in this moment.

 Of course that doesn’t make any of this any easier for those who knew her and cared for her.

 Whenever anyone we care for dies, we are going to feel pain.

 That is the very big price we pay for love.

 That’s just a part of life.

 But like the hardship in this life, our feelings of loss are only temporary as well.

 They too will pass away.

 And all the goodness of a person’s life rises to the surface and overwhelms most of that loss.

 Realizing that and remembering that fact is what gets us through some of the hard moments of this life.

 This is where we find our strength—in our faith that promises us an end to our sorrows, to our loss.

It is a faith that can tell us with a startling reality that every tear we shed—and we all shed our share of tears in this life—every tear will one day be dried and every heartache will disappear.

 So this morning and in the days to come, let us all take consolation in that faith that Ellen is still with us.

 She is in the stories we share.

 She is in the words we use.

 She is here in our hearts every time we remember her with fondness and gratitude for all she was in our lives.

 Let us hold her close in our memories and celebrate her life with a sense of gratitude for all she was to us.

 Let us truly be thankful for Ellen.

 I’m going to close with my own words, with a poem from my book, Fargo, 1957, a book she had a part of.

 This book chronicles the tornado that’s truck Fargo in 1957 that killed 12 people.

 But the book is more than that.

 It is a book of loss and hope.

 One of the poems I know she appreciated was a poem called,

 

The Wind Will Take It

                                           

 If everything you worked for

and longed for,

if everything you loved

and hoped in,

is taken from you

one summer evening

          shrug your shoulders

          and say, “so be it.”

          There is no grand art

          in mourning

          or loss.

          No one is going to feel

any more sorry for you

          than this.

And what’s the use of pity after  all?

          Because, as we know,

the wind will take it.

 

If anyone praises you

for your bravery in the face of death.

If anyone marvels

at your strength

as you make it through funerals

without breaking down or crying

          ignore them.

          This kind of praise never sustains.

          It will not comfort you

          in those long nights

with no one else around

to stroke your aching shoulders

or caress your face

numb with crying.

          Besides, who knows better than you that

the wind will take it.

 

 

If anyone says to you

in your grief

you’re a saint.

If they praise you

for clutching at your faith

even when it seems

heaven turned against you

          turn away from them politely

          and let their compliments

return to them unclaimed.

Sainthood, like all praise,

is fluff these days.

And, like fluff,

the wind will take it.

 

And if your luck changes

and you find yourself surrounded

by everything you ever wanted in this life,

by money, houses, cars,

and that evasive thing, love,

by all the things that bring

to your mouth a taste like sweet cane sugar,

          say “thank you,” but in doing so

          remember how quickly it can all go again.

          Say, “yes, it’s nice” but maybe soon

the wind will take it.

 

If they tell you

those who died

never were.

If they say,

their graves are empty,

their names are random letters

on eroding slabs of stone or bronze,

and we have forgotten,

once and for all,

the sound of their voices…

If they say

“look around! it never happened!—

it was only a dream,

a nightmare one long summer night,

          they are lying to you.

          Stand up to them and say

          “You’re wrong!” for, as we all know,

          now better than before

the wind will take it.