Elizabeth and I didn't spend that much time together in person. We exchanged occasional texts, did a few writing retreats together, and saw each other at various clergy events. We encouraged each other in our writing. We were not best friends, but we shared our stories. Elizabeth's voice has been a close and constant companion since we met in 2008. She knew she wanted to write, and she did it, earning her MFA, creating a daily writing practice (at 5am!), and working her fingers off to get her work out there, all while being the rector of a church and later dealing with severe health issues. Her social media posts, Substack newsletter, book reviews, articles, essays, and two published books - the most recent, "Irreverent Prayers," co-written beautifully with Samantha, have detailed her journey through the challenges of life and ministry, her assessment of the myriad books she read, and her reflections on everything from her beloved dog Pepper, to the annoyances and joys of being a priest, to her passion for bird watching, to her thoughts on faith, religion, and JBap. Her last Facebook post was on August 11. Though her voice will go on through her writing, we will not hear new words from Elizabeth. There is silence in my head since I heard the news. Silence where her voice used to be.
I attempted to walk the labyrinth yesterday. For Elizabeth. As I walked the familiar path, the crape myrtles and magnolias and huge sycamore tree reminded me of those for whom I've walked it before. A yellow butterfly appeared from nowhere and fluttered so close I thought it might land on my shoulder. As I walked through the first turns of the curving path, I remembered how Elizabeth came to my 40th birthday party with her redhead, Gary when I was so newly returned to VA that I had very few friends to celebrate with me. I remembered the tiny plant that she brought to me when I hosted a writing day for we three clergy writing friends at my house and how it thrived later on the windowsill in my church office. I remembered the walks and talks and drafts and laughs we shared. I remembered our writing retreat at the little guest house at Grace Church in Yorktown, eating salads of arugula and dark chocolate covered pomegranate seeds, ordering pizza with "light cheese" for Samantha, walking across the battlefields and down by the river, and writing.
Lost in my memories, I was startled when I was interrupted by a security officer from Eastern State who walked over and asked me if I had a pass. I wasn't even a quarter of the way to the center. He wasn't unkind, but he was determined to do his job, and if I didn't have a pass then I was trespassing. Trespassing on the grounds of a state hospital by walking a labyrinth built by the community for the community and the patients as a healing labyrinth, a labyrinth that even the patients of the hospital are no longer allowed to walk. I explained who I was and where I work and that we work with ESH patients and that we have an agreement that allows me to walk there, though hospital leadership has changed so frequently that our agreement had expired unbeknownst to me. As the guard told me he needed to contact his chief, I told him that I would have someone call and explain but that I was walking for my friend who had died, and could I please just finish my walk.
And then the tears came. This is not the first time ESH security has told me I was trespassing. I used to walk the labyrinth 4-5 times a week and waved at the security officers driving by who waved back, but sometime during Covid they changed the rules. It doesn't seem fair that those who find meaning in this special place cannot walk there, even though NO ONE is using it. It is not fair that Elizabeth had breast cancer followed by lung cancer followed by relapse and a lung removed and so much difficulty breathing and so much sickness from the treatment. It is not fair that her voice was silenced. It is not fair that she is gone. And I sat down in the middle of the path and sobbed.
Poor security guard. He stepped outside the labyrinth and called his chief and came back to tell me that I could finish walking but that I needed a pass if I ever came back. Then he gave me his condolences and told me he hoped I'd feel better. He walked a little out of sight, though clearly he was waiting for me to leave. I didn't finish the walk. My tears watered the path of the labyrinth as I released a vast wave of grief. When I was able to stand up, I walked slowly out of the labyrinth and back to my car.
Although I was devastated not to be able to finish my walk for Elizabeth, perhaps it was what needed to happen. Her life was interrupted. She didn't get to finish - though she sure did some amazing things in the time she had, shortened though it was. She is at peace now. How I would love to hear what she and her beloved JBap are discussing - another one whose life was interrupted much too soon.
Elizabeth, some day soon, I will walk the labyrinth for you. But for now, know how grateful I am for your time here on earth. I will miss your presence, your humor, your passion, your strength, your vulnerability, your stories, your insights, and most especially your voice. May angels surround you and saints welcome you in peace. Well done, good and faithful servant.
