On a cool August morning people in dark clothing began to drift into St. Thomas ‘a Becket Church in Canton, Michigan. The broad  narthex suggests a convention area more than an entrance to a sanctuary, and some paused in small groups before entering the darker space, the silent space.

A group of middle-aged women were gathering in the narthex several yards from the back of the sanctuary. They stood in a semi-circle awaiting the arrival of a complement of a dozen or so, murmuring their greetings. “We’re going in together,” someone announced,” so we can have a moment together around the coffin.” The message was passed on to each person as they arrived to tearful  hugs and kisses.

At a quiet signal they moved into the sanctuary and stood at the back around the coffin. The woman illuminated in repose was too young and small for that sad bed. She had been larger and energetic in life: a daughter, a wife, a mother, a thoughtful sister and friend who made things happen. Her body was barely a memory of who she had been. Her Camp sisters stood in a semi-circle, remembering.

The ample sanctuary was half-full and filling, lit only around the altar, a broad area with a steeple shedding some natural light from above. It was a semi-circular, domed space, more communal than traditional Catholic churches.  A priest and some lay people were preparing the altar.

From the middle of the group of women around the coffin, a few quiet voices began to sing: “Abide with me. Fast falls the eventide.”  Bright, solemn voices around them took up the verse in perfect unison.

Abide with me. Fast falls the eventide.

The darkness deepens, Lord with me abide.

A quietly startling moment. The service had begun from the rear of the sanctuary without the least preparation.  A spark of love, of gratitude, of prayer.  It was a familiar vespers tune, as they say, “putting the church to bed.” It often puts a loved one to bed at the end of life.  And it calls on the divine to come down and share the pain of  loss.

When other helpers fail and comforts flee.

Help of the helpless, O abide with me.

In a moment the living and the dead are together, knowing all are finally going into that dark night. But the Camp sisters are going together. They have worked, played, served, and loved together. Now they walked the shadow of the valley of death together.

Camp Miniwanca had just concluded another summer of joy on the banks of Lake Michigan when word of Kim’s passing reached them.  Kim and her mother Jan had been noticeably missing, so everyone knew it was coming.  Kim and Jan should have been sharing the swimming, the games, the singing,  the meditations, the sunsets on the beach. They would have been leading and serving, as well as playing, because Miniwanca had been a lifetime of friendship and growth for both of them. Now their sisters had crossed the state to say a final good-bye.

Randy remembered the fun of being Kim’s kid brother at the beginning of the service. He captured her high-spirited leadership and the profound influence she had on others.  We heard God’s promises to the living and the dead from the three readings from the scriptures and an anthem from the Psalms. The priest spoke encouragingly of the communal life of the obscure town of Nain, where Jesus resurrected a widow’s only son [Luke 7:11-17 NRSVUE].  Canton was the community to which Kim gave so much and which gave much to each other. We sang “Taste and See, the Goodness of the Lord” and then received Communion or a blessing. The draped casket followed by the family left the sanctuary first. Then we left less ceremoniously, glad to have known such a vibrant woman as Kim Strube Scartelli.

The quietest tribute was the most sacred. The moment that unexpectedly began the funeral mass, when Kim’s best friends shared her love and memory in soft voices, voices of reverence and wonder.  In the words of Carrie Newcomer

I can feel it in the hollow spaces
In the quiet places
Where the light comes down
I can see it in strangers’ faces
In the lines and traces
On the winter ground
Where the light comes down.