Eulogy by Bill Reynolds
From the Memorial Service for Sarah Woolf
March 17, 2002

Well, Sarah wanted a big service. Not that she had any choice. She also wanted a short service, but I hope she will understand.

You have shared stories and your tears and they are gifts from our collective grief. Our presence honors Sarah’s life and it also honors the grief of Bill, Donna and Shannon, Warren and Sue, John and Gloria and all the family, the grief of her friends, the grief of us all. The Book of Common Prayer includes a prayer for a "good and holy grief." The goodness of our grief is that it connects us to Sarah and to each other. If Sarah’s and her family’s journey this last year taught us anything, it is that we need each other and we are not alone. Not even in our grief. We may grieve differently, but each of our ways of grieving is good. The holiness of grief is that it connects us to God’s own heart, to God’s own anguish and grieving with us and for us. One of the most touching images from the Psalms is of God "putting our tears in a bottle," holding and keeping our tears because they are so precious. Because grief is precious.

One of Sarah’s friends, Claire, remembers that Sarah was "one of those people who actually appreciates my ‘remember when . . .’ stories." There are so many stories. Playing dress up, being fairy princesses, making up plays even when there wasn’t an audience, birthday parties with "three-humped cakes", hiding Easter eggs and never finding them all, fourth of July in Decatur, dressing up as a table for Halloween, having three Christmases or it just wasn’t Christmas. When Sarah wanted to sell lemonade and realized that there were no supplies, in the house, she decided to sell rocks instead. These were, in her words, "very old rocks, from long, long ago." There were few buyers, so when Bill came home he bought them all. Not many Dads have bought rocks from their own yard, but good for you for doing so.

Pitts remembers the time when she was telling an inter-generational group at Oakhurst about the 60’s sit-ins in Nashville and she became tearful as she recounted how the students were rounded up and arrested. Sarah was six years old and seeing Pitts tears came up and sat on her lap, gave her a hug, and then returned to her seat. At her uncle Bill’s funeral, Sarah said that everyone was just too sad so her personal mission was to go up to complete strangers, smile and say, "Hi, I’m Sarah Woolf." She told Pitts two weeks ago that she wanted her to be happy after she died. There is as much to celebrate as there is to be sad about. We are happy that she is no longer in pain. We are grateful for all she taught us about living and about dying. We celebrate her full, well-lived life.

The collage of stories changed as Sarah grew up. There were still sleep overs and staying up late talking and pigging out. But add boys, parties, Dave Matthews, singing during cross country training, marching band, diet coke, Birkenstocks, Soul Miner’s Daughter, Los Loros, sixteen candles, puppies, Cosmo, Melton’s, rapping, prom night, chocolate, wasabi, girls night out, inside jokes, hanging out. For Homecoming she painted her head bright red, the Junior Class Color, with '03 painted on her cheeks. One of her friends wrote, "How do you have cancer, undergo chemo, miss school, take AP classes and make grades better than half the school, and still manage to look stunning? Your dad is right, you have an amazing smile. You absolutely astound me."

Sarah learned to drive a stick shift prior to her 15th birthday in the DeVry parking lot so she would be ready on the big day. The first time Sarah drove alone with Diane, she had to stop and search for the right CD to keep her promise of playing "Sweet Home Alabama" to mark the moment. Go ahead, hum it to yourself - it’s a song that will turn the wheels. Sarah was so proud of being able to drive a stick shift. She got mad at her Dad when he came to pick up from band in an automatic because she wanted her friends to see her driving the stick. After she relapsed, she asked her Dad if she would be able to drive again. He said that probably wouldn’t happen. She was silent for a few moments and then said, "That’s ok. I got to drive for a year and it was fun!"

In September, Sarah was giving a writing assignment "to tell about a significant event, person or experience and its importance to you" On September 12, after she was discharged from the hospital following a two-day chemo, here is some of what she wrote:

"When importance comes to mind, my priority list always begins with my family. I guess because they understand and love all of me, including my flaws." She the writes of her special bond with Shannon: "She is a proton and I am an electron. We will always stick by each other . We have plans to live together when we become widows. Play bingo, cook high fat meals and rock in our twin chairs to our satisfaction . . . We have bonded in a way nobody can understand. When my surface was unlovable, she loved me anyway. That is what a true sister is."

Shannon helped Sarah manage the emotional swings of cancer. "As my results that February went down, she was there to teach me to laugh at the orderlies and to take full advantage of the "happy drugs" they provided. Cancer was merely another target of politically incorrect jokes that we could privately enjoy without exposing our crude nature. But laughter wasn’t the only emotion. When intense sobbing halted my laughter, she would always say, "Stop that! You know nobody cries alone in this house!" and proceed to bawl along beside me until we found ourselves smiling again."

When Sarah was diagnosed, Donna told Sarah, "I don’t know how this will come out, but you won’t be travelling this road by yourself." Her first night in the hospital, she thought she might be ok without Bill or Donna there. She then realized that there were kids there whose parents, for a variety of reasons, where not able to be there with their kid. "Promise me I won’t be alone." Her family promised and they kept it. And she was never alone. She needed and asked for lots of company. Her friends would pack into a hospital room on a Friday night. During one of those visits, as she and her friends were rapping what might be considered offensive lyrics, one guy didn’t feel comfortable singing his part in front of Bill. Sarah assured him, "My dad can handle it." Her dad and mom and sister and family could do more than handle it. I can’t imagine them caring for her better or with more grace. Your openness to Sarah’s friends and to your community was a gift to Sarah, to them, and to all of us.

Bill let us in on this journey of care and concern through his many emails. Bill, I know this was partly self-preservation, saving you from having to tell the story over and over again, but it was a powerful gift to your community. It helped us to know how to pray and how to hold you all in our hearts. In one of your emails, you wrote, "You have all seen the t-shirt with the message on the front, "Don't sweat the small stuff," and on the back, "It's all small stuff." Well, friends, that is a lie. Big stuff exists and will make its claim. But growth in the midst of the kind of year we are experiencing requires developing a finely-tuned sense of which stuff belongs in which category."

"Cancer is big stuff. So are friends like you."

The night before he died, when Jesus said good-bye to those whom he called and taught, this tight group with whom he had traveled and kept company through so much, he said, "I no longer call you servants, I call you friends." Friendship is a sign of God’s grace in the world. Sarah was not alone because of her friends, and neither was her family because of theirs. To all of Sarah’s friends, what you have is very special and is a treasure. You were with her through it all: holding her vomit bowls and staying through her pain, following her from class to class, and laughing and crying with her, telling her good-bye. You helped to give her what she called the best year of her life. Your friendship now includes the pain of your grief. Be patient with each other in the different ways that each of you will grieve. You will have different ways of thinking and feeling about all that has happened. Be gentle with yourselves and with each other.

After her consultation with the surgeon to consider possible surgery, some of Sarah’s friends visited her at home. As they were leaving, they hugged her and asked how she was doing, her answer was, "I'm fine. I'm not sure my mom and dad are doing so well, though." She was aware that they were carrying a burden of concern and stress over what was happening. I don’t know if she realized that this is how its supposed to work. The parents and big sister and other family worry so that the patient doesn’t have to. This was a gift that you all gave to Sarah.

When she began experiencing pain in November, Sarah could tell that Shannon was pretty upset and told Bill, "Shannon is really worried. But I'm not." She told him later, "I guess I should be really scared that something is going on and we don't know what it is. But I can't help believing that everything is going to be all right. And if it doesn't turn out like that, what good would it have done me to be scared or worried along the way?" The night she relapsed, when Lanny asked if she wanted him to tell anything for her to the folks who would be gathering for prayer meeting that night, Sarah said, "Tell them I’m fine." At the end of her life, she wasn’t worried about dying, but she was worried about her family. They told her that they would be sad and would miss her, but that they would be ok. And telling her that helped her to let go of her life here with them. She said, "I love my family, I love my friends, I love my animals, but I feel like I’m leaving this world."

The pictures of Sarah that ran with the articles last weekend in the AJC were taken by Sarah’s friend Diane for the class superlative that Sarah received : "Best Hair." The AJC photographer looked at the pictures and told Diane that Sarah was gorgeous. Diane later reflected that "he doesn’t even know what gorgeous is until he has seen your strength, your positive attitude, your dedication to music, your love for animals, your wisdom, your sense of humor and your heart. No one is quite like you."

One of her friends wrote to Sarah, "I know you’re watching over all of us. Even if we can’t talk on the phone, I can still talk to you in my prayers. Even if we don’t save you a bed or a seat in the car, you’ll still be watching us through everyone’s lives that you have touched." This is what we mean by the "communion of saints." The writer of Hebrews described our connection with those who have died as a "great clouds of witnesses" who watch us as we run this course. Now Shannon has said that she "doesn’t need a saint for a sister." In our remembering Sarah, we do not need to idealize her. She knew her own flaws and even thought that her meanness might keep her out of heaven. In the end, she knew God’s love was greater than her own personal failings. For Baptists, sainthood is not for the perfect but for the faithful. And Sarah was that. One of her friends wrote to Sarah after she died: "You make me want me want to be a better, stronger, more dedicated, and more faithful person." Well, that’s what the saints, both living and dead, are for. Another friend wrote, "One thing I learned from Sarah was to never be afraid to be who you are. Sarah has always know what she liked and what she hasn’t and has never pretended to be or do something that wasn’t her, which I feel is somewhat ahead of how most people our age are." Another wrote, "I learned so much from you: how to be kind and caring without even knowing, the true joys of the beach, real strength and courage, and what angels on earth look like."

On All Saints Sunday, we sing, "for the saints of God are just folk like me, and I want to be one too." We name our saints each year and we remember and call on them at other times. Our covenant affirmation to "know and love, and to love and be known’ by each other extends to the saints as well. Since the time Sarah relapsed, I have needed and spoken often with Jack Smith. At times, it was easier to talk with Jack about all this than with God. I have a feeling Jack was talking to God for us. And Donna told Sarah that Jack would have a pot of soup on for Sarah.

On the Sunday Sarah talked with her family about her dying, Sue told Sarah that when she goes to the beach she talks with her mom, Granny Barker, and tells her about beautiful things that she sees. Mo told Sarah, "Now when I go to the beach, I’m going to talk to you. When I see something beautiful, or do something that I know you would love to do, I’m going to tell you about it." Sarah’s eyes were closed, but she responded with a beautiful smile. Sue was telling her granddaughter that their connection, their communion with each other would not end. It has changed, but it hasn’t ended.

Somewhere in the process of dealing with all the complications of being allergic to one of the chemical agents in VP16, including two trips to the ICU, one of the staff at the hospital suggested to Sarah that some psychological counseling might be helpful. Her response was something like this: "The folks who need counseling are the ones who recommended trying VP16 a third time after they saw what happened the first two tries. Those folks are in need of serious help." Bill reflected, "What disease can prevail against an attitude like that?"

Sarah’s grit and grace came through it all. After being discharged on a Saturday, she announced to her family on Sunday that she wanted to take a few vomit bags and join her friends at Music Midtown. She did it, throwing up and all. At least she had a good excuse. Afterwards, she was exhausted and still pretty sick. Later that night, as she was awakened for her nightly injection, Bill wondered aloud with her whether Music Midtown had been such a great idea, after all. She said, "Maybe it was a stupid thing to try." Then her face broke into an incredibly wide smile as she said, "But I got to hear the Indigo Girls, in person, sing my favorite song of theirs, Galileo, as an encore. It was one of the best times I ever had." What matters most about who Sarah was - her spirit, her gratitude, her laughter, her passion for living - this cancer and its painful treatment and its malicious recurrence could not touch. It didn’t even get close.

On New Year’s Day at their traditional gathering, Bill named 2001 as a "year from hell" and Sarah responded, "It’s been a great year." The truth is, both were right. In our remembering Sarah and her family, we do not need to forget her own pain and that this family went through the agony of seeing one they loved hurt and suffer. As Bill wrote, "this evil disease has touched every aspect of our lives." I don’t know what it’s like to see my daughter suffer, or my sister suffer, or a granddaughter suffer. These folks do. It is not possible to make sense of this kind of suffering. Saturday night two weeks ago, when I heard her cries of pain, I said to God, "Can you hear this? Are you even listening to this?" And then I thought of the psalmist’s question, "Why are you so far away from the sound of my groaning." Emil Fackenheim, a Jewish theologian, said that the suffering of the innocent is the end of rational explanation. There just aren’t any answers that we can know to explain or justify this kind of pain. Bill told me that he could understand the randomness of cancer, but the senselessness of such pain defied theological reasoning. When John Claypool’s daughter Laura Lue died of Lukemia, one of our Baptist saints, Carlyle Marney said, "God has a lot to account for." Duane Davis wrote in an email that his doctorate in theology was absolutely no good in a time like this. "But I know this, when I see God, there better be a damn good explanation."

Fackenheim says that to be faithful to our suffering we must keep telling two stories: the story of suffering, and the story of resistance and resilience in the face of suffering. "It’s been a year from hell." and "It’s been a great year." Our faith holds that these two stories are really one story - the God whose own child suffered and cried out in agony, He died only to rise again for us all, so that we too might live and die and rise again. And live, even, with zest and gratitude through our own pain. The witness of this story is that we are not alone in our suffering and that pain and death do not win. God does. Life does. Sarah does. We do. Sarah knew the final outcome, which is why she told Pitts she wanted us to be happy.

In the end, for Sarah, along with the pain, there was music and there was love. Donna said that in the last days music and having her feet rub helped with the pain more than the pushing the button for her bolus. The music of the flute, Moonlight Sonata, and the Indigo Girls. The love of family and friends. When told of the people who were praying for her and sending her their love, all of you here today and more, Sarah said, "I feel it." She sang out loud to "Southland in the Springtime on Thursday" so that she could be heard in the living room. She sang again with Shannon on Friday to the same CD, which, along with a few "omigods" to Courtney Cox, were the last sounds to come from her. She knew that she was leaving this world but she needed the music and the love to help take here to where she was going. I’m convinced she waited for Emily and Amy because a few hours after they had sung to her, she died, with her Dad, Mom, Sister and beloved dog Sam. "Everyone who loves is born of God," John said. And the great love that sang the world into being sung Sarah into the gorgeous "company of all the saints in light."

In the last book of the Chronicles of Narnia, C.S. Lewis offers a vision of the place that is to come as the same as the old place, "yet at the same time they were somehow different - deeper, more wonderful, more like places in a story: in a story that you have never heard but very much want to know. The difference in the old Narnia and the New Narnia was like that. The new one was a deeper country: every rock and flower and blade of grass looked as if it meant more. I can’t describe it any better that than: if you ever get there you will know what I mean." Lucy says, "Isn’t it wonderful. Have you noticed that one can’t feel afraid, even if one wants to. And Eustace says, "By Jove, neither one can," after he had tried.

John described it like this:

"Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘See, the home of God is among mortals, He will dwell with them as their God, and they will be his peoples, and God will be with them. God will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more, mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.’ And the one who was seated on the throne said, ‘See, I am making all things new.’ And he also said, ‘Write this, for these words are trustworthy and true.’ As Lewis’ wrote to end his great story of Narnia: "Now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on forever: in which every chapter is better than the one before."

When we talked with Sarah about what she wanted in her service, I told Sarah that I already had the ending for what I was saying. She said, "Good, I like that." I suppose if you’re ready to die it’s good to know folks are getting ready for what happens afterwards.

I said, "I can see you driving your Honda, sunglasses on, windows down, sun roof open, your new curly dark hard blowing in the breeze, listening to your music, heading over the bridge to Siesta Key." Her eyes were closed but she said, "I like that." And I bet you do, ‘cause you’re fine, as fine as fine can be. And the music and the love, for you, for all of us, goes on . . and on . . . and on.