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.
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