And please remember me with laughter

I come from a large, extended family, and, since fortunately most tended to live to an advanced age, as it happens my parents, aunts, and uncles (some well into their 90s) all died within a relatively brief period. Grateful though I am for their lives, it can be difficult, when one was part of a close (and enormous) family, to face that nearly everyone of my parents' generation is dead. Just yesterday, I attended a funeral for my aunt, and (aside from groaning inwardly at to what dreadful depths the liturgy for Roman Catholic funerals has descended) I could not help but notice who 'was not there.'

Yet there was a development for which I am grateful and glad. Afterward, my cousins, sister and I had hilarious conversations, remembering not only my aunt who just died but all of those who are no longer with us. Deo gratias! I know that, when I have left this life, I want others to remember me with affection and humour.

When I was a child, two of my grandparents were still living. My dad's father had died, but Sam remembered him pleasantly. It was quite another matter for my mother. Her own mother died at age 75 (quite a life span for someone born in the 1870s), and had many children and grandchildren, yet, to listen to my mother speak of her, one would think the only thing Grandma ever did in her life was die.

All children fear losing their parents, of course. Yet I do regret that, in my very early life, my mother gave me the impression that, once one loses a parent, the rest of one's life will consist of mourning. When my mother was elderly, she still could not speak of grandma without great sorrow - and this after 40 years and more.

It was quite different, when I was 16 or so, and a dear friend lost her father. It had been quite a shock - Jack was only in his 50s, and had died of a sudden heart attack while playing with his youngest son (who was no more than 10.) Still, within months, and certainly after years, all of his children remembered him with laughter, and regularly shared memories of good times. I am sure that later, when they married and had children of their own, they may have felt some sense of loss that dad was not there - but I would far rather live in the memory of others with joy than in a house of perpetual crepe.

Bereavement is a key example, but heaven knows there are others. I have seen many times how tragedy can break us - but how we may make things worse if we fear that letting go of the mourning eventually is a lack of tribute to the love we had (whether for people or anything else which is precious to us.)

A few years ago, I attended a memorial for the British nationals killed at the World Trade Centre in 2001. I have always remembered the very moving message from HM the Queen, which included the very true reflection that "grief is the price we pay for love." I do hope that, when I am gone, there is someone left to grieve for me (for a time) - one of the hardest aspects of a life totally devoted to the Church is that one may have no one to remember oneself in anything other than a capacity of 'service.' But let the grief be one not to endure. I wish to be remembered with laughter and warmth.

For those who have gone before us: may they rest in peace and rise in glory.

May the angels lead you into Paradise,
May the martyrs come to welcome you, and take you to the Holy City,
The new and eternal Jerusalem, where Lazarus is poor no longer.
May you have eternal rest.