Remember Linda

I was dressed in jeans and a stained black hoodie. But the man’s clergy radar was working fine. “Excuse me, pastor…” These conversations in our church parking lot usually lead up to money. But not today.

“Pastor, I’d like to have a, you know, a little memorial for Linda. She died this week. You remember Linda.”

I did not remember Linda. Our church sees many Lindas. We’re perched on Portland’s 82nd Avenue, a nondescript borderland of a road that everyone uses but no one really wants. “Decent” people drive through quickly, their gaze on the road or slipping quick as distracted thought past the street’s residents. Homeless, sex workers, dealers or consumers of drugs, sometimes more than one of these in the same person—that’s whose feet get blistered on the eternal pavement of 82nd, in between the car lots and the random array of small businesses clinging to life.

A person has a name. A name means you matter to someone, that someone somewhere thought your existence matters. At the meal that we cook and serve for all comers, we try to call people by their names. But there are so many. They come, they go. They age, they get found sick in alleys and are taken to hospitals. They go to detox. They go to jail. They get out of detox and jail. They die. Usually they just disappear, for weeks or months or years. Sometimes when they come back, if they come back, they ask with a look of weary hope, “Remember me?”

Today I did not lie. “No, I am afraid I do not remember Linda.”

The man, gentle, almost courtly, inclined his head respectfully and smiled. The gaps in his teeth did not detract from his dignity. “That’s OK, pastor. She hadn’t been coming here for long. She was real nice, though. She got real sick, cancer in the liver.” He gestured with one hand that, only then, did I notice was holding the strings of several helium balloons, the foil kind you buy in supermarkets. “It’s OK if we have a little gathering, a little memorial, you know? And would you say a few words?”

I smiled, a little wearily, and said “Of course.”

Our volunteer team was occupied with serving breakfast to a roomful of over 25 people. They looked up, registered what was happening, and without a word looked at me.

None of us needed to be concerned. Linda’s mourners had things well in hand.

“Hey ya’ll, Linda died. You all know Linda?”

Weary, wary heads were raised. A moment of silence, and then a murmur of recognition from some. “Oh yeah. Harsh.” “Shit, man.” “That’s too bad.” “Poor baby.” From others, no recognition, but respectful looks and softly spoken words, the human words that we all try to say when we wish to speak to pain, with death, with grief.

“We’re just gonna have a little gathering in here,” the man said, gesturing to the inner hall. “Everyone’s welcome.”

Young women, their faces battered with what the street deals out equal-opportunity to young and old, came in with more balloons, with flowers, with a collage of photos adorned with hearts and glitter.

A very distraught woman, wild-eyed yet somehow gentle in her body posture, fixed me with her gaze. “She was my best friend. She was so sweet. I don’t know what I am going to do. She went so quick.” She showed me a photo.

A young woman, soft brown complexion, smiling shyly at the camera. Someone’s daughter, someone’s friend. Around the shy eyes, hints of dark circles. Puffiness to the cheeks and face—some edemia, water retention, common to heavy drinkers. An awkward set to her stance and tilt to her hips—untreated injury. Sometimes I so wish I did not know what I know.

I smiled at the distraught young woman. “She looks so sweet.”

The woman looked down and, with a sob, said, “She was. She so was.”

Those who finished eating gathered in a loose, uneven circle, gently and respectfully. One man talked to himself the whole time, which no one heeded—he always talks to himself, all the time. The gentle man and the distraught young woman passed around a poster to sign, as well as shiny helium balloons to sign and to take home, if people wanted.

When that intangible moment of readiness arrived, they all looked up at me.

The Episcopal Prayer Book works great to frame human moments like this. But the art of ministry consists in getting out of the way, gracefully.

I left lots of space for people to share. These are the voiceless, or if they speak, people walk away. Not here, not today.

“She was so sweet.”

“Linda was my love and my friend.”

“She tried so hard, she was walking that good road, she had been clean for awhile now.”

“I totally respect how she was trying to get her life together. It’s such a shame.”

“I didn’t know her, but she sounds awesome.”

“I’ll always remember her smile.”

Everyone had voice. The thoughts, the tears, the words rose and fell like an east breeze off the hard street.

All eyes raised to me once more.

“Rest eternal grant to her O Lord/And let light perpetual shine upon her…”

A life is long, yet over in a moment. A funeral is even shorter.

“Take some balloons, y’all. Thank you. And there’s a gathering at my place, a little food, maybe a few beers, if you come by later.”

It was not long before the hall was empty, empty except for three shiny balloons gently wafting at the end of their strings.

These days, churches are composed of layers, like an onion. One layer is this human gathering on Saturday mornings—volunteers and guests, raw human reality battered by the beast of a street that lays like a great sleeping serpent outside the church’s door. Food, kindness, connection—that’s church. It’s far from Sunday morning, but that’s church.

And the human thing still happens. One life, one almost-silent life, came to an end. The promise of a long life was broken by disease, the disease of addiction then the disease whose name is printed on the certificate. But before the world moved on, some people gathered, a few photos were shared. People spoke from their own pain and struggle to one young woman’s struggle. The pastor “said a few words.” And someone blew up a bunch of shiny balloons.

Someone remembered Linda.