Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Remembering Ellen, my Mentor and my Friend

I didn't think I was going to write about how I've been feeling about Ellen's death. It feels so...narcissistic and self-involved to be thinking about how I feel in the face of a devastating loss affecting so many people. Sometimes I worry that years of being in therapy has made me be all me me me. That isn't the sort of person I want to be, but maybe it is, underneath it all, who I am.

Anyway, there was nothing else to write about because this is what's been on my mind.

I first met Ellen in the summer of 2006, when she was the head of McGill' Bachelor of Theology program. She was curious about the unaffiliated woman who was joining the program and asked to meet me in her office. Back then, she was in the basement of Birks, in what I felt was a very comforting and open space; the kind of space that made you feel welcome right away. I don't know if I was what she was expecting, and I never asked her. I never asked any of my teachers or fellow students if I was what they were expecting, or what they saw when they looked at me. I had long pink hair, and a lip piercing. I wore what can only be described as odd clothing. I don't know how she saw me when I walked into her office for the first time, but she was openly curious about what had drawn me to the program, and what I hoped to gain by studying with them.

Ellen was perhaps the most accepting person I've ever met. She was the first person I ever told that the reason I'd changed the whole course of my life to enroll in theological studies was because God had told me to, and had confirmed these instructions in a vision. She listened to me as if I was telling her the most normal thing in the world. She made sure I knew that I was more than welcome to worship with the Anglican College across the street if I found myself searching for a spiritual home during my time in the program. She made sure that I knew that, if I chose to, I could pursue an honors degree that would let me do either independent studies, graduate seminars, or both. Leaving our meeting, I felt more convicted than ever that I had chosen to follow God in the right direction and had found myself in the right place.

As was true for all of us in the BTh program, I had Ellen as a New Testament professor my first semester. Her classes were challenging and invigorating, and - along with many other fantastic courses - made me realize that reading the Bible for the first time was an experience that could draw me ever deeper into relationship with God. While some people did question their faith, the rigorous academic standards to which we were held provided me with a fertile ground to discover the sacred texts shaping the living history of my belief. I began to see that I could find, in these texts and in this research, a space from which God was speaking to me, about the ways in which I must learn to question the ground under my feet that I had felt was solid and really ask God what it is that God wanted from me. I could no longer rely on the answers blindly provided to me by the Catechism and documents of the Roman Church. Instead, I had to discover God for myself. With her and my other teachers' encouragement, I found myself suddenly feeling expansively free. I was ridiculously happy and alive and full of fervor for God. I felt the power of the Spirit running through me as I tackled the work in this program Ellen had welcomed me into.

Ellen made sure I knew I was welcome to worship with the Anglican theological college, she made sure I knew I could join her at her church when I wanted to experience an Anglican Holy Week and Easter celebration, she made sure I knew she was always willing to talk with me. She helped match me with my first spiritual director, with whom I had a rich and rewarding experience that deepened my trust in God. When I began thinking seriously about joining the Anglican church, Ellen helped prepare me to be received, and was there to sponsor me.

Once I left graduate school, I had the unsettling experience of saying hello to a former professor at an ordination we had both attended only to have her walk by me without acknowledging I was there. Ellen was the next person I ran into. She said hello warmly with one of her beaming smiles. I replied, oh thank goodness, I didn't know if you'd be speaking to me. She looked at me, puzzled but still smiling, and asked why on earth she wouldn't talk to me. When I replied that it was because I'd withdrawn from the program (and, frankly, caused quite a fuss over it), she was like, oh, that, and waved her hand dismissively. She told me that I should come to her office and we'd have tea. And I did. I realized that, in Ellen, I'd found not only a teacher, a mentor, and an ally, but a fierce, fierce friend. When I saw her again this Fall for our sporadic tea get-togethers, she became the first teacher in my graduate program to ask me if I was okay, because she hoped the whole experience hadn't hurt me. She was happy that I had a new job, and we talked about our churches and how we were experiencing worship.

When I became very sick this winter, Ellen followed my blog and prayed for me. When she, too, became sick this spring, I prayed for her and read what she was writing. One night, hours after I am usually asleep, I found myself wide awake and praying fervently. I envisioned Ellen and I, and several other people (none of whom I know personally) holding hands with each other as I prayed. I prayed that God Who knew fear would hold Ellen fast and envelop her in love. I prayed that God Who knew pain would take her pain away. I prayed that God Who knew death would be by her side, and that she would know she wasn't alone. I prayed that she could feel all of our love for her. I prayed these intentions over and over again, until the words fell away and I was just praying. I prayed until I fell into a deep sleep.

The next morning when I woke up I found out that while I had been praying Ellen had been praying compline, and then had stopped breathing when it was over. Ellen is one of the most generous, spiritual, and alive people I have ever known. I wonder how many of us received this kind of Consolation during her passing. I feel like God and Ellen together wanted to give us something. She was so concerned that all of us who cared about her would be prepared for her passing.

I don't know what her death means to me yet. I haven't grasped it. It is still, in some deep sense, unreal. At the church hall after her funeral, I saw the back of someone's head and reflexively started to go toward her, thinking it was Ellen and that I must say hello. I feel an emptiness, a sadness, but it doesn't have a shape.

When I think of her death, I feel like I have no right to feel sad, no right to grieve. There are so many people who knew her better,who loved her more, to whom she meant so very much. I feel like I just don't have the right, and certainly not the right to write about it. Of course, I know Ellen would be the first person to look at me gently, and say kindly - but leaving no room for doubt! - that this idea is complete bullshit.

And I feel deeply ashamed and immoral because, just like every time someone I care about has died in the last decade or so, I feel deeply jealous and I don't know how to talk about that because it's absurd. It's absurd to wish that you were the person who got to die instead. I'm pretty sure Ellen would put her arm around me and remind me that I'm human, and it's okay to have difficult feelings so long as they become a space in which and from which to grow.

I feel so sick and so insane sometimes, because I know that what I feel isn't normal. But I am committed to the path I'm following, where God is leading me and where so many people have guided me and are guiding me - toward becoming fully the person I can be, and being able to give back some of the blessings I have been so lucky to receive.

2 comments:

  1. Katherine why didn't you call me. I'm reading this while having a whole bunch of crissis at the same time. But you do know i hope that i will stand by your side with anything. ♥♥♥amandaxx

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