Scattering Autumn’s Ashes
There will probably be another piece about being a pastor hoping to craft a service around your child’s baptism but ending up putting together a liturgy for scattering her ashes. Two liturgies, actually: this is the one for the service we invited Autumn’s aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents to where we scattered half of her ashes over her grandmother Bonnie’s grave. The other half were scattered at our farm. If it were just me, I would have probably stood in the graveyard and shouted Psalm 22:1a, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” But my nephews were there, and my only living child, and so as forsaken as many of us felt, there were still the possibilities of their beautiful lives at least. So I borrowed from services shared with the Young Clergywomen International Fertility Journey group and shared too many readings (if I were doing a service for someone else I would caution against this), and it felt like the right thing for us.
A Liturgy for Scattering Our Baby’s Ashes
The word of the Lord came to Jeremiah saying, “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you” (Jeremiah 1:5). God knew this baby too. We name this child today so that we may remember her coming among us, and we ask God to bless our remembering.
[To the parents]: What will you name this child?
We name her Autumn.
O Child whom we have barely known, we call you Autumn. Receive this name as a sign of your specialness to us and before God. We will remember you by this name.
When Autumn was born, we wrapped her in a blanket with foxes on it. I had planned on her being a fox for Halloween, and Zekie being the Little Prince, and Stella being the rose. I hadn’t thought of it then, but I read The Little Prince to her oldest sibling when I was miscarrying the first time. This is the part about the fox.
“Come and play with me,” the little prince proposed. “I’m feeling so sad.”
“I can’t play with you,” the fox said. “I’m not tamed.”
…“What does tamed mean?”
“It’s something that’s been too often neglected. It means, ‘to create ties’. . .”
“ ‘To create ties’?”
“That’s right,” the fox said. “For me you’re only a little boy just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you have no need of me, either. For you I’m only a fox like a hundred thou-sand other foxes. But if you tame me, we’ll need each other. You’ll be the only boy in the world for me. I’ll be the only fox in the world for you...My life is monotonous. I hunt chickens; people hunt me. All chickens are just alike, and all men are just alike. So I’m rather bored. But if you tame me, my life will be filled with sunshine. I’ll know the sound of foot steps that will be different from all the rest. Other foot steps send me back underground. Yours will call me out of my burrow like music. And then, look! You see the wheat fields over there? I don’t eat bread. For me wheat is of no use whatever. Wheat fields say nothing to me. Which is sad. But you have hair the color of gold. So it will be wonderful, once you’ve tamed me! The wheat, which is golden, will remind me of you. And I’ll love the sound of the wind in the wheat . . .”
…
[So t]he little prince tamed the fox. And when the time to leave was near:
“Ah!” the fox said. “I shall weep.”
“It’s your own fault,” the little prince said. “I never wanted to do you any harm, but you insisted that I tame you . . .”
“Yes, of course,” the fox said.
“But you’re going to weep!” said the little prince.
“Yes, of course,” the fox said.
“Then you get nothing out of it?”
“I get something,” the fox said, “because of the color of the wheat.”
Sometimes with such an early and senseless death, I think we got nothing out of it. Just weeping and harm. But sometimes I think of what it felt like to walk up the hill after Zekie with my hand on my belly and how much more beautiful the farm seemed. Or going to bed on vacation with all four of us piled in there, how much more love we had. We got something.
At our wedding, one of the scriptures we read was from Song of Songs 8:6-7:
Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm; for love is strong as death, passion fierce as the grave. Its flashes are flashes of fire, a raging flame. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it. If one offered for love all the wealth of one’s house, it would be utterly scorned.
Usually at funerals I lead, I share this quote I read in a blog post about pregnancy and infant loss because I have found it to be so true: “The funny thing about death is that no matter how hard it tries to tear two people apart, it never wins. Some bonds can never be broken, even when you’re suddenly worlds apart. Somehow, you still stay theirs, and they still stay yours, and no passage of time could ever change that.” You see, love is as strong as death, as fierce as the grave. Love will always connect us to Autumn. So even as we grieve and rage, we still claim that victory
Let us pray:
God of compassion, your love for all children is strong and enduring. We were not able to know Autumn as we had hoped. Yet you knew her growing in her mother’s womb, and she is not lost to you. In the midst of our sadness, we thank you that our child is with you now and all those whom we love that have gone before us, especially her siblings who were miscarried before her, her grandmother Bonnie, and her great-grandmothers and great-grandfathers. May light perpetual shine upon them. Amen.
Litany of Remembrance (Adapted by Rev. Danae Ashley from the Reform Jewish Prayer Book)
Memories of Autumn will come to us, unbidden, sometimes unexpected, in all the various moments of our lives. Although memories may bring pain, they also bring comfort—for as long as we remember, Autumn is still part of us.
In the rising of the sun and it's going down,
We remember her.
At the blowing of the wind and in the chill of Winter,
We remember her.
At the opening of buds and in the rebirth of Spring,
We remember her.
At the blueness of the skies and in the warmth of Summer,
We remember her.
And especially at the rustling leaves and the beauty of Autumn,
We remember her.
At the beginning of the year and when it ends,
We remember her.
As long as we live, she too will live, for she is a part of us,
We remember her.
In letting her ashes scatter into the world, we are also remembering that her presence will be scattered throughout our lives. We offer her up to God as we release her, promising to wait in hope till we meet her in heaven’s grace. Amen.
Autumn was due during Holy Week, and I originally thought that she was a sign of the promise of resurrection. Now that she is dead, that promise seems cruel. But the first witnesses to the resurrection knew the cruelty of death too. In the Gospel of John we read that the empty tomb only brought more fear at first, not joy:
11 But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb; 12and she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one at the head and the other at the feet. 13They said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” She said to them, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” 14When she had said this, she turned round and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. 15Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? For whom are you looking?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” 16Jesus said to her, “Mary!” She turned and said to him in Hebrew, ‘Rabbouni!’ (which means Teacher).
We might still be waiting for Jesus to call us by name, to call us to hope and new life after this horrible tragedy. So let us keep waiting, let us hang on to the color of the wheat, let us find comfort in our own knowledge that death cannot quench love. Let us pray.
All-loving and caring God, into your hands we commend your child Autumn, beloved daughter, sister, cousin, niece, and granddaughter in sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.
This body we commit to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord. Henceforth, says the Spirit, they rest from their labors and their works follow them.
Eternal God, you have shared with us Autumn's life. Before Autumn was ours, she is yours. For all that Autumn has given to make us what we are, for that of her which lives and grows in each of us, and for her life that in your love will never end, we give thanks.
As now we offer Autumn back into your arms, we pray for comfort in our loneliness, strength in our weakness, and courage to face the future unafraid. Draw those of us who remain in this life closer to make us faithful to serve one another, and give us that peace and joy which is eternal life; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
I don’t have a benediction like I would normally share. There is no blessing in this death. But I was thinking about the musical Hadestown and how I felt Autumn kicking for the first time during the song “Our Lady of the Underground.” The encore of the show is a song called “We Raise Our Cups,” in which the singers “praise the ones who bloom in the bitter snow.” Grief is some bitter snow indeed. We might not believe it now, I certainly do not, but may we be the ones who bloom even in this bitter snow.
