Remembering Faye

So I got a call this morning that an elderly woman named Faye had passed, and was informed of the funeral arrangements she had made and my expected part in them. It's a thing you get used to, eventually, being a pastor.

Unless it was Faye... because I don't think I will ever be used to my (very) brief role in her life.

I found out about Faye a couple of months back and was appalled. You see, as a new Pastor to a church I take getting to see my shut-ins very, very seriously, and so the fact I had been here more than a year without even knowing about her existence made me ready to bust some heads. That was when I arrived, and learned why I had never heard about her... 

It was because that was precisely how she wanted it.

Faye went beyond introverted; she had anxieties around meeting new people (or even old friends) that went beyond the introverted dreams of Tumblr posts. She'd been having an "episode" (bad coughing fits connected to her highly advanced lung cancer) and so was really, really medicated when I arrived, which she said had helped to her talk at all.

She explained that church itself was a very important part of her life, but also it's biggest hurdle. My church, specifically, because she knew she was loved and welcomed there, would always be greeted warmly, as a friend, no matter how long she had been gone... and that, of course, was the problem.

She told the story of sneaking in one Christmas Eve, figuring that with everyone so focused on kids and presents that she could go unremarked, absorb the holiday family feels by osmosis. No luck... a family saw her sitting alone and begged her to come and join them, including inviting her to Christmas Dinner the next day. One anxiety attack later, she realized that the same thing she loved about this church that she called hers was what would keep her from it.

At other churches she could ghost in, ghost out, unseen (or a  least uncommented) by anyone. She knew that wasn't what Church was about, though, and didn't go to those places, either. Eventually she stopped going all together, and eventually got the idea across that well meaning visitors would not be needed or wanted. It took awhile, but the church learned, so that by the time I was there, she went unmentioned. When I asked folks about her, they took awhile before slapping their heads, and advising me not to go very often.

I didn't. I told Faye while we talked that if she wanted to talk to me again, she could call, I promised I wouldn't just "drop in," which calmed her. I felt like a horrible person doing so because it made me feel like I would be neglecting her, but that was what she asked for. I hoped she would call. She never did. She only called me the first time because she'd thought she was dying that morning, and I guess she decided that prayer would cover her when she actually was dying, that or she was finally unable to vocalize. I hope it was the former.

Even her funeral will be insanely private. No friends, no family, just me, an urn of cremains, and a prayer. There's apparently a full funeral honorarium waiting for me to drive home the point... this is what she wants and what she is paying for, and she is insisting on paying full price.

I think the whole reason I am writing this is to feel that I am inviting her to be remembered in a way that would have appealed... relatively anonymously on the internet. In a later generation I feel she would have loved facebook groups or virtual churches, places where she could partake in social interaction without having to be in the room. Or I hope so. Maybe I just want to feel that I am doing SOMETHING for her.

I did exactly what she wanted, and, since she wasn't a member anymore, more than was strictly required of my job description. It absolutely is not what I want to do for people who call me their pastor. I wanted to be there, to hold her hand, to tell her she wasn't alone.

And yet, if I told her that, she would have died panicked.

I'll never forget you, Faye. I will never stop wondering if there was a way to invite you into the church you wanted to be a part of that wouldn't panic you without making it a church that had no appeal. I will look at my congregation of welcoming, loving people and wonder, in the back of my head, who that very opening, welcoming attitude is scaring away. You raise questions that have no good answer... to be a church you would have been comfortable attending, we would have had to become the kind of church you didn't want to attend.

Bless you, Faye. Introversion isn't a disease, but I hope the anxiety that came with yours is healed in the next life. Because I believe that everyone goes to heaven, and the idea of you in such a crowded place is both making me smile and breaking my heart.