Lord, hear our prayer.

I had never heard this prayer before, but after just a few lines it began to feel beautifully familiar, as a room full of my family and closest friends, and closest friends of my family, chanted in unison.

Lord, hear our prayer.

I’m not Catholic. It was a part of my childhood – a fragmented piece of my spirituality that was mystical and half-understood, undertaken on occasion with my Grandmother, but never fully explained or explicitly taught. Most of the people around me didn’t attend mass as a habit either, but my Grandmother did, and we were gathered to say goodbye to her. So together we prayed.

For Ethel, who in baptism was given the pledge of eternal life, that she may now be admitted to the company of the saints. We pray to the Lord.

Lord, hear our prayer.

I squeezed my husband’s palm with my right hand and my cousin’s with my left. They kept me centered, tangibly in place, present in the moment I most wanted to flee. I felt them surrounding me and knew my physical body hadn’t shattered the way my heart and mind had.

For she who ate the body of Christ, the bread of life, that she may be raised up on the last day. We pray to the Lord.

Lord, hear our prayer.

I heard the voices all around me in their somber cadence and although I couldn’t see the gathering behind me I felt their presence fill the room. My voice carried the grief from my body and it communed with theirs. My heart was no longer alone. We sang as one.

For those who have fallen asleep in the hope of rising again, that they may see God face to face. We pray to the Lord.

Lord, hear our prayer.

I felt desperate. Let her rise again. Let there be more. Let not this existence be futile and brief and extinguished.

For the family and friends of Ethel, that they may be consoled in their grief by the Lord, who wept at the death of his friend, Lazarus. We pray to the Lord.

Lord, hear our prayer.

These were the words she would have taken comfort in. These were the people she loved, praying for her in the name of the God she adored. These were the truths she lived by. We drew together and drew close to her in the shadow of her faith.

For all of us assembled here to worship in faith, that we may be gathered together again in God’s kingdom. We pray to the Lord.

Lord, hear our prayer.

Hope, that cornerstone of faith; that beacon in black night, which gives us something to follow lest we stumble in our blindness. Amidst the chaos of denial and grief the cadence of the prayer took hold, rocking my heart back into steady rhythm like a mother rocks her child.

I knew that she was gone but I knew that there was more. Beyond the pain, beyond her decline, there was an ocean of more waiting for her. I just needed to hold on to that knowledge in the same way I wanted to hold on to her. I knew that some days I would know this. But some days, I would need to be reminded.

Lord, hear my prayer.

Experience the world of 1908 and get a glimpse of Victorian death customs in my novel, The Persistence of Vision, available on Amazon in paperback and on Kindle.

Read more at LisaGery.com