Homily for the Commemoration of all the Faithful Departed

My favorite season of the year is Autumn, and for many years, I have traveled the Green River Road from Greenfield, through Colrain, and up into Guilford, Vermont. I always end my trip in Brattleboro with lunch. It's a beautiful ride any time of year, but especially in the Fall.

Several years ago, I traveled this road with a friend during the peak foliage season. It was a bright sunny day; there wasn't a cloud in the sky. The brightness of the sun seemed to illuminate the yellows, oranges, and reds of the leaves, which stood in sharp contrast to the crisp blue sky and scattered themselves on the ground, floating over the rocky bed of the Green River. The day couldn't have been more perfect. Then we came to one of my favorite spots on the road. Just into Vermont, the road takes a sharp right and goes over a single-lane wooden covered bridge.

Just as we went over the bridge — and I was feeling euphoric — my friend turned to me and said, “Isn't is amazing that the most beautiful season in the year is the season of dying?"

Suddenly, the day seemed to lose its brilliance. The sky didn't look quite as blue, and the leaves seemed a little dull. I felt like someone had thrown a wet blanket over me. I couldn't quite believe what my friend had said.

I did think about his words, however, and quickly realized that he was correct and that there was nothing dismal about it. It is true, as life begins to ebb from the leaves, instead of just drying up, they reveal a tremendous beauty in color that was there all throughout their short lifetime but only visible at the end. I also thought about how the leaves, after they put on their fiery show and fall to the ground, undergo the natural processes that make them part of the soil and thus provide food and nourishment for future generations of leaves.

It seems to me that there can be a great deal of similarity between the season of Autumn and the human experience of death and dying. How often I have known someone who, in their final months or years, has mellowed out a bit, opened up, and been able to share the beauty within after struggling to do so their entire life. It is true, too, that those who "nourish" us in this life continue to do so after they are gone. Their influence can sometimes be felt for generations, just like the leaves.

Back in 1998, I gathered with my family as we bade farewell to our Dad. He died at the age of 56 after a relatively short battle with cancer. As we gathered with extended family and friends to mourn and to celebrate, in faith, our Dad's new life, the words of my friend came back to me: "The most beautiful season of the year is the Season of Dying."

While my Dad did not know he was in danger of dying until a couple weeks before he did die, there was some power deep within him that seemed to know it was time and took care of all the deeper things that needed attention before he left this earth. This was his season of dying and it was, indeed, the most beautiful season of his life.

My Dad was always a good man and always well-liked by people. However, the last couple of years of his life were really good ones. It was a season of reconciliation in many ways. It was a time when my Dad really learned how to open the window of his heart, to reach out to others in love and compassion to those who were sick. As his life slowly and secretly ebbed away, we saw the wonderfully brilliant colors that illuminated his soul and enabled those around him to see and be touched by it. It was a wondrous sight to behold.

Just like the leaves that have fallen to the ground and continue to nourish the leaves of succeeding generations, our beloved deceased continue to nourish us. They are irrevocable parts of our lives in so many ways. Their spirits are a part of who we are.

It is not pessimistic to say that the most beautiful season is the season of dying. To miss that beauty, now that would be a dismal and tragic thing.