Just Jerry
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by Gail Epes
Dear Jerry,It has been horrible not having you here in person, but every time I begin to plunge downward into despair, something prevents me, some sense that you really did fly away: you flew off not into nowhere but into everywhere.
But too soon, too soon! You were young (by my standards) and wanted to live. I wasn't ready to go on alone, without you as a spiritual director, yet here I am.
I remember reading in one of your articles in Shalem News that though your family knew you were well known out in the world, at home they knew you as "just Jerry." You knew yourself that way, too, knew your boundaries, your humanity. What you gave me as a spiritual director was the space and safety to experience myself as "just Gail" and to know the adequacy and fullness of that self in increasing amounts over time.
How I could forget, though, and how patient you were when finding me back to my own tricks of doubt and negation. I always thought an hour with you was as if my jumbled inner kaleidoscope was gently turned through your listening until a bright shining pattern emerged, sufficient for sending me back out into the world oddly (how did it happen?) smiling.
Two dreams. One I had forgotten but found in my journal. I was lying sideways, and you were there to encourage me. Someone came in threatening to distract me. It was as if I were going through a birth canal. 'You're almost through,' you said. That was at the end of October.
At the end of January, I saw you for the last time. I didn't know it would be the last time, but because of your illness, I tried to be aware that it could be possible. (It was in that session that you told me that the way I think of priesthood is idolatry, enough for me to ponder the rest of my life). You were having trouble staying warm so even in your office you wore a brown felt hat and wrapped yourself in a gorgeous shawl of many golden colors which someone had made for you. You had a gleeful look on your face, like a monk's. I remember saying to you, "You look like a free man."
In that hour you also said that you knew now that you needed to be sick; it was the only way you would stop trying to take charge of your own life.
The second dream came after you died. We were all at a Shalem workshop and you had led the morning session. After lunch, you went upstairs to rest. At the top of the stairs was a sign which recorded a significant event in the life of the staff at Shalem. The last sentence said, "We were transformed by laughter."
Jerry, I had a hard time after you died, having forgotten the heavy cellular pain of grief and missing your incarnate encouragement, especially before I preached. One day I sat on the floor of my study trying to write a sermon and crying, remembering how many times you prayed me into the pulpit and wondering what to do now. At that moment, I looked out the window of my city house and saw the streaking flight of a Great Blue Heron--a kind of cosmic wink. There was laughter in the air. Transformative.
You helped me so much with my love of earth and animals. I hope you see me riding my horse Scooter now, see and know the joy. We used to pray for you together, and I loved how you said, "Say hello to Scooter and his Gail."
In my sorrow, I thought you'd paid a visit to the powers-that-be and said, "Give her a good dollop of a Dark Night. It will be the best gift I could give her."
When I heard there would be a memorial service for you, all I could picture in my mind's eye was a blue sky full of balloons. I suppose you know how I smiled when I walked into Bon Secours--balloons everywhere, and that huge bunch at the altar, perfect! Happy, blessed, glad, grateful I am for the gift of knowing you in God.
Amen and thank you, just Jerry,
with love, from just Gail
Gail Epes, is an Episcopal chaplain in Alexandria, VA
© 2008 The Shalem Institute.