The Sanctuary

Last weekend, I attended Lauren's Memorial Service. It was a spectacular July day. Driving into town, Hub wondered, "What's with all the pink ribbons?" Nearly every mailbox wore one, a big salmon-colored bow. "Probably for Lauren." I guessed.*

When my mom told me on the phone the previous week, "We'll have to get someone to babysit for Elsie during the memorial service." My instinctive reaction was,

"I'll call Lauren. She'd love to do it!" In the moments before I blurted out those words, the impossibility of this hit me. We called my Aunt, instead.

Hub and I left Elsie with Auntie Lynne. The rest of my family was already hard at work at the church, putting everything together. Our church is a historic meetinghouse in the center of town. It sits on a hill and looks out over a green that was once the Sudbury town common, back before there was a Wayland. It seats about 300 people in the pews and parks only a couple dozen cars. Nowhere near enough to accommodate all the people who wanted to commemorate Lauren. A tremendous effort was made to provide access in other venues. Lines were run by the fire department. Sound and video were transmitted. Chairs were placed in rows by the hundred. 200 in the vestry of our own church, another 700 in the church across the street. Busses transported people from churches and temples all across town.



Hub and I were not part of this effort. Our job was just to be there. We climbed on our bicycles and rode to the center of town, I in a new orange dress, and hub with his khakis stuffed into his socks. You might wonder at the orange. We Unitarians don't exactly gather to mourn. The emphasis is placed on celebration. We met to grieve our loss, but also celebrate Lauren's life, hence the orange. We rode slowly, trying not to sweat, taking in the smell of sun on sweet grass the whole way to church.

I had visited with Lauren's mom and her dad the previous weekend. They are divorced, and the whole day, they were passing plans for the memorial service back and forth across town. At Malcolm's house, they were choosing readings and ministers. Mary was writing her list for the service. It struck me as familiar -- the drafting of my own wedding and invitation list. And even though she was only 18, that part of me that still doesn't get it, still doesn't realize Lauren's gone forever thought, "Ah yes, I knew I would be invited to this wedding some day."


This parallel won't quit for me. I take my seat in the same pew from which I watched my friend Amy, Lauren's earliest babysitter, get married ... only Amy is in the pew with me this time. It is a hot July day, not even a week after Hub's and my anniversary. It rained on our wedding day, but the hot church is the same. Sweat trickles down my arms and drip from my elbow. The last time I sweated like this, I was standing at the alter myself, nervously wondering if everyone noticed. On this day, there were blooming salmon rose bushes on the pulpit steps. Ken, who married me and Hub, takes the pulpit. It's so familiar.

But it's not Lauren's wedding. It is her memorial service. And it starts with a voice recording of her singing with her acapella group. I don't think I've ever cried so hard. Her voice is beautiful. Her pitch is perfect. She has come such a long way these last few years.

There are more tears. Many, many more tears. But there is laughter, too. I love hearing stories about Lauren. It gives me hope that the beauty of her life might outshine the tragedy of her death, and it reminds me that, even though we haven't been super close these last few years, she was still the same wonderful person at 18 as she was at 8 -- just older, more poised, more mature, and with even more to share. It is intensely gratifying to be in this sanctuary, stuffed up close to my mom on the left and my husband on the right, grasping both their hands and letting the tears flow freely and creating a mountain of soggy tissues at my feet. I am a sloppy crier.

It feels right to meet the eye of everyone in that room. If I don't know them, they are Lauren's extended family. If I do know them, they're members of our church, people who have seen me grow from a toddler to an adult. One of my youth leaders gave me the biggest healing hug. Even though I've forgotten the names of all the gray-haired women and white-bearded men around me, faces are familiar everywhere. The ministers all seek me out specifically. Here, I don't have to give excuses for why my thesis isn't done, or why I am grieving so deeply over someone I babysat. Here, I don't have to ask people to stop talking about the details of Laruen's death because it is too hard for me to think about. Here, I don't have to explain myself at all. They already know all that. It goes without saying. We are in this together.

There are beautiful words spoken by Lauren's friends, family, all three ministers, and even her father, who has been so vocal and considerate and dignified about everything. Let me assure you that her mother is just as poised and strong and dignified, but more private in all of this. I love them both, and I am relieved to see them sit beside each other, despite the divorce.

They close with another recording. Lauren is 12, starring in Annie. I remember it. I came home from college to see her. She belts out "Tomorrow" with all of her heart, and it just about destroys me. I can hear Mary sobbing, too. I used to think that song was so sappy. I don't think so anymore.

We emerge into the sunshine on the common. I give Lauren's childhood best friend a big hug. "I'm Kate. I was Lauren's babysitter. You might not remember me." "I remember you." She says.

And there, on the grass is my own childhood friend, outfitted in her triathlon training gear (far more appropriate for cycling than my own outfit). She came to listen to the service in the shade of a big oak tree. She came to support me. How incredible.

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This morning, I took Elsie to church in our new town. I walked in to the quiet summer service, my daughter in my arms, and took a seat in a deserted pew. When the time came for sharing of joys and sorrows (an activity in which I am not usually inclined to participate), I stood and lit a candle in front of two dozen strangers.

"My name is Kate, and this is Elsie. I am currently feeling deep sorrow. My beloved friend, Lauren Dunne Astley's life was taken a few weeks ago. And though I am still grieving, I also feel joy for the incredible support and love that I have found in my home church. I want my daughter to grow up with that sense of history and place and community and familiarity that has brought me such comfort. I want to give her that foundation of support. This is why we came this morning. I want to give my daughter what I have found at church."



* The salmon bows are sold by local businesses Russels Garden Center, Beyond Beans(inside of JJ McKays) and Donelens. $1 per bow (Russels) or all proceds (BB and Donelens) of these bows go to The Lauren Dunne Astley Memorial Fund, a foundation established by her parents to support the things that Lauren loved most (arts and music) and also to fund grants geared towards fostering health and happiness in adolescent relationships.

If you're interested in making a contribution (definitely not a requirement of reading this blog!), you can mail a check to:

The Lauren Dunne Astley Memorial Fund
Village Bank, 62 Boston Post Road
Wayland, MA. 01778

I promise it'll get to the right place without any being lost to administrative costs. This is, after all, a labor of love.