All Saints’, Dorval
Patricia Waterston, 1928-2024
October 22, 2024
I knew Pat Waterston as a member of the congregation at the eight o’clock service here at All Saints’ by the Lake (formerly St. Andrew & St. Mark’s) in Dorval. Those who knew her all her life might find it odd that she was attending the service that didn’t have music, since after all, music was one of the abiding joys of her life throughout the nine decades that we were privileged to have her here with us on this earth.
The piano, which was Pat’s instrument, is known for its unique versatility; it can laugh, cry, march, dance, whisper, sing, and shout. And Pat, too, was a remarkably versatile person: a mother of five in an age when mothers were encouraged to focus exclusively on the home, she earned a BA and insisted on using her intellect, while certainly not skimping on the love and nurturing she devoted to her family. Her life spanned from the Great Depression to the Internet age; she moved from end of this continent to the other and also spent time overseas; she was a city dweller who adored her country retreat. The song of her life had many themes and rich harmonies. It was not always a joyful song; it had its dark and dissonant moments, most particularly the death of her beloved father when Pat was 17. But she always played it with both simple sweetness and consummate skill.
Pat was involved in the church community here at St. Mark’s (as it then was) in a myriad of ways as well. Again, she did many of the things expected of a woman of her generation – serving on the altar guild, baking, being part of the secondhand clothing shop in the church basement from its inception – but her faith, though quiet, was not unexamined. She was an active participant in Bible study and book clubs, and she found it particularly meaningful to be part of the Maundy Thursday vigil, when the consecrated bread and wine from the Maundy Thursday service were placed on the altar here in this chapel and parish members keep watch with them through the night until Good Friday morning. In that silence and mysterious darkness, she experienced the presence of God.
It’s always startling when someone we love dies. Even after a long, full life, even when there is some warning. They were there, and now they’re not, and yet the love, the memories, the legacy, have not changed. And it is those enduring things – the love, the memories, the legacy – that sustain us in our grief. As our reading from Corinthians says: “what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal.” The song of Pat’s life continues to play, even though she is no longer here to be the principal musician.
And not only does it continue to play here, for as long as she is loved and remembered, as those who loved her create their own improvisations on the theme of her melody. Her song has also now become fully part of the glorious symphony that we call the communion of saints, the music that began playing with the creation of the world and will continue for eternity.
Music is, in a very real sense, the language of God; it transcends our human vocabularies and expresses without words the hopes and longings of our hearts. I personally believe that much of what we do in heaven will be literally making music, because I can’t think of a better way to spend the time; but even if your understanding is more metaphorical, I think the image of life in God as an endless symphony, more beautiful than anything we can currently imagine, is as close as you’re likely to get to the truth.
Within that symphony are all those we love that have gone before us; their songs twine together in harmony with the God who made them, who loves them, and who rejoices in them forever. And now Pat has joined that heavenly ensemble, adding her own unique melody to the texture of the sound. She now sees God face to face, and she is part of the divine music that she had sought, by faith and prayer, to hear all her life. Here on earth she made beautiful music that was an echo of God’s music; now she is part of the real thing.
None of this means that her loss does not hurt. For those of us still living this mortal life, it is right to grieve when someone who had played God’s song for us is no longer here to sing it in person. But the song does not, cannot end. As the words of the Commendation put it: “Weeping over the grave, we make our song, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.”
Jesus is the one who carries our burdens and gives us rest for our souls. Pat is at rest amid the music of heaven, and God offers us rest for our weary souls as we comfort each other in grief. And through it all, we give thanks for the song that was her life, and we sing it together with the saints in glory.
Amen.
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