Carol Wright - RIP

When I became the priest-in-charge of this Congregation in the months before I was installed as Rector, Keith and I had a conversation. I honestly can’t remember if he called me or if he stopped me at church, but I remember the conversation. At the time, Keith was Senior Warden, which meant that he, along with the Junior Warden, were the lay leaders of our Vestry. As some of you know, our church was in need of healing. We had gone through something difficult, and now I was the new person in charge, and in the midst of the transition, Keith said to me, “Father, I’d like to tender my resignation as Senior Warden.”

I asked him why, and he said that he had been appointed Senior Warden by the previous rector, and there was a new priest-in-charge now, and he had the right to appoint his own Senior Warden. Do you remember what I told you Keith? I said, “Absolutely not. You’re not going anywhere.”

As I look back on my first years here at St. Dunstan’s, that decision to keep Keith as Senior Warden was among the most best decisions that I made. And it wasn’t just a great decision because Keith was a great Senior Warden, and he was. It was a great decision because when you had Keith on your side, you also had Carol, and with Carol on your side there wasn’t much you couldn’t accomplish.

We all know that people come and go from your life. Some people are deeply impactful. Some people are easily forgettable. I am truly blessed to know Keith, and I am truly blessed to have known his beautiful wife.

Carol was never slow to give me her opinion. I’m certain that is true for her family as well. At times she said things that shocked me. At times she said things that made me laugh. At times she said things that were incredibly insightful and things that I needed to hear. I want to say to you, Keith, and to your lovely family, on behalf of everyone here at St. Dunstan’s, thank you for sharing Carol with us. I doubt there is anyone who knew Carol that wasn’t better off for having met her, and we are no exception to that. We were blessed that she shared her life with us, so thank you.

I said on Ash Wednesday that we are more than dust. Yes, we are dust, and to dust we shall return, but thanks be to God because of what Jesus Christ has done, God will give life back to dust again. I said that in preparation for today, because I refuse to believe that Carol is nothing more than dust. I refuse to believe that Sunday was the end of her story. I refuse to believe that we will never see her again.

As Carol’s priest, it was my privilege to get to sit with her and Keith in the last hours of her life. Thank you, brother, for letting me be there with you both. It’s a privilege to be there in those moments, but it’s also heartbreaking. You can’t sit with someone in those moments and not understand that realize that the words spoken to Adam and to all of us on Ash Wednesday are undeniably true: you are dust, and to dust you shall return. When our lives begin to leave our body, the stuff from which we were made, our dust, begins to show. I sat there with Carol and her wry smile was gone. So too was the twinkle in her eye. Her heart was beating. Her lungs were working. But she wasn’t there. She was in the process of returning back to dust.

On the Friday before Carol passed, I went to visit her and Keith in the hospital. There were moments where Carol was present and responded. She even talked a little. After I prayed with her and anointed her with oil, Keith and I sat down in our chairs on opposite sides of her bed, and we started to talk: about Carol, her health, her treatment, and things like that. We must have been too loud, because after being silent for a while, Carol suddenly said to us both (and mind you these were the last words she ever spoke to me), “Blah, blah, blah. Too much talking.” I can’t help but wonder if she’s thinking the exact same thing right now.

What struck me in the weeks leading up to Sunday was Keith’s hope. Brother, it was beautiful the way you continued to hope all the way up to the very end. And what I want to say to you, to all of you, but especially to my brother Keith, is this: don’t give up that hope. I know right now it hurts. I know it feels like part of you is missing. I know it feels like there is a pain inside you that will never truly go away, and brother, on this side of the Jordan River, it may never go away. But don’t give up hope because Carol isn’t gone; she’s just waiting for you on the other side. Life may have left her body, and she is returning to the dust from which she was made, but we are more than dust, and we believe in a God who breathes life into dust. We believe in a God who gives life back to the dead, and so, one day, when Jesus Christ returns to make all things right, he will make this right too. Carol will rise from the dead; God will breathe life again into dust, and Carol will live again.

So, mourn, brother, but mourn in hope. Mourn with one eye on what has been lost and the other on what shall be regained on the last day. Remember fondly the life you and Carol have shared together. Treasure your family and every moment that you get to spend with them. But most of all, continue to hope, for we are more than ash and dust, and death does not get to write the last word in the story of our lives. The Gospel of Jesus Christ says that this is not the end. Death does not win. Dust does not define us. The Gospel of Jesus Christ says that even from the dust we will rise again. Carol will rise again. You will hold her hand. You will hug her. You will kiss her. And that distance you feel right now, that separation, that pain, will be gone forever.

I love you, Keith. Thank you for always being there for me, and thank you most of all for sharing Carol with all of us.

Amen.