Memorials

 

David H. Battaglia	David Garfinkel	Thomas E. Page
Jeffrey L. Bishop	Lawrance R. Godolphin	Cynthia Phillips Paolucci S79
Douglas Boles	Kevin Granison	Gregory T. Pope
Janet L. Cruikshank	Susan Mellen Hahn	Richard Ratowsky
Louis A. DePaolis	Jesus Hernandez Jr.	Rodney J. Rodriguez
Robert J. Deraney	John Howard	Andrew J. Rosenbloom
Michael E. Dougherty	Charles Wade Moulton	Bradley S. Rubidge
Carolyn Louise Drucker	Russ Moyer	Katherine M. Schoeffler
Janice Enagonio	Paul V. Olowacz	Marc Simon
Stephanie Fuller		Nirmalie S. Tennekoon

The Princeton Alumni Weekly website has published Memorials for many of the classmates listed above; others come from other sources, as identified. PAW puts all Memorials for a particular class on a single page, so if the link above takes you to PAW, scroll down the page to find the Memorial you're seeking. We will add notices of other Memorials as they appear online. NOTE: We are seeking classmates to write Memorials for Michael Dougherty, Jesus Hernandez, and Nirmalie Tennekoon.

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Sermon for Service of Remembrance

(The Rev. Christine CR Parham '80 delivered this sermon on February 26, 2005)

 

It is wonderful to be here, but is also a bit odd  In the midst of all the orange and black, as we celebrate going back to the ‘best place of all.  When we sing ‘Old Nassau’—even with changes in wording, we don’t usually sing a verse that talks about death!

 

And yet, as we gather from different places in the country, in the world.  As we gather from different faith traditions.  As we gather from different vocations.  Besides Princeton uniting us—as students, as faculty, as staff, as alumni, as family and friends—we are also united by our experiences of death, by our experiences of loss and grief. And we  gathered here today because we have lost people we love, and we miss them. 

 

No matter how long it has been, we still turn the head, looking for these folks.  You want to share a story of your life, something that happened in your day.  Want to pick up the phone and call them, tell them something, check in with them, perhaps, ask their forgiveness.  And we can’t do that.  And we are sad.

So we gather, together.  Remembering, thinking about those we love and have lost.  Perhaps still reeling from the events leading up to their death.  Maybe death followed a long illness, maybe you were involved in daily care.  Perhaps it was a telegram delivered to your door.  Or the sudden phone call or early morning visit from the police, we all dread.  Maybe it was reading in PAW that a former buddy had died or coming in to work, only to find your colleague has died, or coming to class only to find an empty seat.

 

No way to make any of that seem easy.  Grief is hard.  Grief is difficult.  And in the throws of grief, we tend to feel numb, isolated, apart from the regular routine.  Ever get a telemarketing call right after someone has died?  It is very jarring.  Even following the regular routine can be difficult.  There are so many reminders of what we have lost.  How do we continue the regular routine without our spouse, parent, child, friend, colleague, partner. So many folks are going on with their daily routine, while we feel alone…numb, cold, frozen.  And we fell like we will be there forever.  Feel like we will never experience happiness, never feel warmth.

 

But, as we heard in our readings—"the steadfast love of the LORD never ceases, God’s mercies never come to an end.”

 

God will be with them; God will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed way." … "See, I am making all things new." He who makes peace in his high places, may he make peace for us.

 

It reminds me of a story I read, written by a young hiker following a winter hike up Cold Mountain in Pisgah Forest in NC.  It was the middle of winter and was very cold!  They had experienced three days of freezing weather.  This was their last morning on the mountain.  Coming out of the tent, awakening yet again to this cold, freezing world, this is what she experienced:

"Opening the fly, I feel the freezing morning air shock my skin.

My body asks why I am moving at 6:30 in the morning, but it is disappointed for I have no answer.

 

Moving with haste, I know I have limited time before the inhospitable atmosphere penetrates my layers.
 

As I reach for my water bottle, I see with some amazement that it is frozen solid. This means I will be without water for several hours.

As I wait for my friends, I see my breath escaping my facemask, taunting me with its

warmth.

Moving around the camp, I try to recapture the heat that has departed from my body.

As I concentrate on the task at hand, I notice the glimmer of light on the horizon. Turning my head, I am overwhelmed by the magical hues of orange, purple and pink.

As I stare at this painting, I am ensnared by its beauty. Rising into the sky, the majestic painting throws its light across the landscape, adding to its beauty. Realizing it has an onlooker; it thanks me by embracing my body with warmth. 

I accept this gift with great joy, unable to give anything in return.  As I stand, watching the masterpiece, I barely notice my friends calling me back to reality.” -- Christine Elizabeth Marie Parham Winter 2005

 

In the midst of our frozen grief, God provides beauty.  God provides warmth.  Warmth that embraces us so we know, no matter what, we will survive this pain.  The cold doesn’t go away.  But with God’s love and God’s peace, we survive.  And God provides people, friends to call us back from the frozen pit of grief.  Back to life.  A different life, perhaps, but one still full of hope and promise.

 

Yes, we are united here by our experiences of grief.  But even more strongly, even more powerfully, we are united by God, and God’s outrageous love for us.

 

We have heard a wonderful assortment of readings today.  Readings that come from many sources, many places.  And yet, they share common themes.  They all share the themes of the greatness of God and the greatness of God’s love for us, of God’s compassion for us and of the greatness of God’s peace.

All of which, God lavishes upon us without pause, without break, without demanding we pass some kind of test first.  All of which God gives us now and forever.  We sang in our opening hymn—‘O God, our help from ages past, our hope for years to come’.  We sang out the continuity of God’s activity in our lives and in the lives of those who are yet to come and the lives of those who have gone before.

 

This is a Service of Remembrance.  We gather here to remember.  To remember our time here together in this place.  To remember those who traveled with us here and throughout our journey beyond these walls.  To remember those who are no longer in our pilgrimage on earth.

 

And as we remember people and our experiences and remember the joys and the pain. 
Also remember—that through it all—God remembers.  God remembers us and all whom we have loved and lost.  And God will be with us through whatever comes.  And in that, find comfort, hope, renewal.

 

Hear these words from Isaiah:

 

But now thus says the LORD, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.  When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.  For I am the LORD your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.
 

We have all faced floods in our lives.  We have all experienced the fires of real life. Yet, as difficult as the floods of real life that we encounter, these events are not the final word.  ‘When you pass through the waters, I will be with you, and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned.’  Even in the midst of the worst of it—facing the valley of the shadow of death, we, and those we love, are never abandoned, never alone.

 

And now, those we have loved and lost are with God.  God who created them, who formed them, redeemed them, called them by name, and returned to receive them to God’s warm welcoming arms.

Doing so not because they were Princetonians, or connected in some way to this awesome university.  But because they were—and are—each one—a beloved child of God.  Called by name.  To whom God promised eternal life in God’s house, dwelling with the Lord for ever. And God keeps God’s promises.

 

So, in the midst of the pain and sadness and grief, we can also rejoice.  Not that those we love are gone.  But that they are well.  Healed and whole again.

 

Resting in the loving arms of God.

 

Amen.