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November is the month that the Church designates for special remembrance of the dead. It has always seemed to me to be a perfect time for reflection, and not at all in a morbid way. In these days before winter arrives, bringing the holiday season with its bustle and hurry, nature itself seems to foster a new, quieter mood that is suited to thought and prayer.
I love the scenery of November after the leaves have fallen: bare branches against a wider sweep of sky, the soft grays and blues of cloudy days, the paler sunlight as autumn dwindles and winter approaches. Nature takes on a look that is more stark, elemental and unadorned. What setting could be more appropriate for looking at life and death?
When we remember the dead, we think also of life—the life of the one who died, and how life changes when we lose people we love.
Death touches all of us, and the longer we live, the more people we are likely to lose. Through the years I have lost many, including my parents, a brother, and the aunt who was my godmother and to whom I was especially close. Death has visited my family at both ends of the life span: my maternal grandmother died at 95, and my niece and her husband lost their baby girl before birth.
The loss of the baby was a particularly heavy cross; she had been much longed for by her then-childless parents. It was a great comfort when family and friends gathered for a Memorial Mass for my grandniece, named Faith by her grieving mother and father.
I love the Church’s practice of praying for the dead. It is rooted in Scripture; 2 Maccabees commends Judas Maccabeus for the “holy and pious thought” of making an offering to atone for the sins of the dead (2 Mc 12:45). Prayer seems to bring our dead loved ones closer to us. Praying for them, and to them, is an affirmation of our belief in Christ’s promise of eternal life.
There is no denying the separation and sorrow that death causes, but faith teaches us to believe that, in the words of the Roman Missal, “life is changed, not ended.” Those we loved have not ceased to exist, and our faith in Christ means that we hope and believe we will be reunited with them. In the meantime, it is comforting to think that they watch out for us and intercede for us with the Lord, just as we believe the saints do.
It is difficult, however, to adjust to the loss of their presence. Mourning is painful and draining, and it takes time. Every death also is a reminder of our own mortality, and that itself is a challenge.
In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus proclaimed, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” The Church teaches that one of the seven spiritual works of mercy is “to comfort the sorrowful.” A good way to do that is to be available to those who are mourning in whatever way they need us—to visit, to offer transportation, to go out to eat, to do an errand or just to listen. Or perhaps to suggest a support group for the bereaved, or some other kind of intervention that will help to ease the difficult time of transition.
In the face of death, Jesus’ promise of eternal life with him is our greatest comfort. But here and now, death can be followed by a kind of new life that brings healing to those who mourn. My niece and her husband, the parents who lost their beloved unborn baby, adopted a beautiful, newborn baby girl a few years later. Now, at 21 months, she is the delight of our family and the joy of our hearts, even as we trust that her sister in heaven awaits us.
For the heart that is open to faith and hope and love, death never has the last word.
