A prayer for the dead and the living

Nine years ago as we prepared for the baptism of my oldest child, we found my father unresponsive and spent the next two months watching over his chemically induced coma, amnesticly-embraced awakening, and tempered recovery. A decade earlier and he would have likely died, but ICU physicians have skillfully battled sepsis and respiratory failure to a dwindling fraction of mortality. It was so uncertain at the time, though, even with the regular calls from a dear friend and expert clinician. And because I can work remotely I spent those weeks watching at his side, waiting.

In a grim and poignant coincidence, I was also working on a history of our funerial rites—the rituals of death and dying. As my father’s body fought itself, and the mechanical ceremonies that gave him life attenuated, I reviewed and synthesized thousands of accounts of consecrating the dying, dressing the dead, and dedicating theirs graves. I tried to understand what work these have done among our people. I tried to understand what work they might do for me.

I walk with the dead. My spare moments are filled with the media that only rarely and imperfectly capture their memories. But the dead are not death. And from those days sitting next to my mother in the aspirantly sterile room, it was death. Auspiciously, my father lived to see our two youngest born and grow, and our older two will have many of memories, as will I. Though not a lifetime, nine years is something, even if punctuated with grave illness.

There was no cognitive strain when my sister’s call woke me up and she explained that my father was dying in an Italian hospital, nor when she called back minutes later to say that it was done. It made sense. It was a possibility we all considered. But I laid in bed shattered. Broken. We immediately busied ourselves attending to logistics—arranging flights, cars, beds, and flowers, food, and graves. If I could focus on these, perhaps I could piece myself together. I could execute. Then every time I saw someone I love I fell apart again.

Over the next few days I travelled and met my mom and my siblings in a state none of us call home. We had a week. We found a house where we could stay and be together. We ate, entertained each other and our extensive kin, and we made the ninety-minute drive to the rural community of my mother’s childhood. Still the new sight of those I love tore at me, but every time I fell apart it became easier to find my way back, perhaps because of them.

We wrote an obituary and we planned the services. When my mother asked me to say the grave dedication it felt like I could barely respond. It was the only thing I wanted to do, but it felt greedy. We are not a few. When she heard me choke on my tears, she asked who else it could be and I thanked God.

A number of years ago, a friend explained how he prepared for funeral speaking. He stood in front of a mirror and practiced. He repeated until he could get through it. The older I’ve gotten, I’ve found it more and more difficult to talk about things that have any meaning to me outside of the structure and safety of scholarship. As much as I wanted, or perhaps needed, to dedicate the grave, I knew how I would be. So I followed the pattern when building new temples. In my moments alone, I rehearsed the texts that have illuminated our liturgies and lived devotions. I composed a dedication, and I repeated the prayer until I could say it for myself.

In all the work that I have done to explain Mormon worlds, and the work of our rituals in particular, I was not ready for that moment. We bore the hexagonal coffin to the spot, my brothers, sister, and I. And as they, along with other family and friends rose to speak, I sat. Their words flowed with power, but I could do nothing more. Then the end came and I stood.

Oh God, our Eternal Father, by the holy priesthood, and in the name of thy Son, Jesus, we dedicate and consecrate this spot in the land of our mothers as the resting place for our father, brother, and friend. And when the Lord shall come, and old things pass away, and all things shall be made new, we shall rise from the dead, and shall not die after. We will stand together before the Lord in the holy city. We will worship Him, who through his own blood has made us kings and queens, priests and priestesses unto thee, oh God! Thou, who are King of Kings and Lord of Lords, we pray, give us peace. Amen.

And He did.