Cindy Saunders Funeral Sermon

“I am the good shepherd, who lays down his life for the sheep.”

“I know my own and my own know me.”

This, my friends, is the good news of Jesus Christ. And it is the good news to which Lucinda (Cindy) Lane Saunders held her entire life. We have a good shepherd: who knows us and loves us, who finds us when we’re lost, who lays his life down for us. We have a good shepherd whose love is broader than our own.

In this life, there is a certain sense of aloneness. There are, of course, all the normal culprits: flare-ups of sibling rivalry; being “different” than the other kids; divorce; bereavement. But this aloneness of which I speak is something far deeper than those. Even in the best of circumstances and relationships, when we are honest and listening to our hearts’ deepest yearnings, there abides a sense of wanting more: to belong with another and in all creation; to know and be known; to love and be loved – fully, without barrier, in total peace and complete union.

Sadly, (all too often) faith itself is vulnerable to all those same controversies that plague the human condition, fueled (as we are) by selfishness and fear. And so church can become quite like anything else in the world, splintered in its own religious ways – by doctrine and denominations, by unbalanced budgets and conflict between vestries and rectors and who wants what kind of music!

But our souls want more. Our faith is for something far greater. After all, it is fear that divides, but love that joins. And it is love that wins.

And Cindy, committed to the church – and to St. John’s especially – knew much over the years of such conflict within the church. And yet, she held on. And ultimately, what she was holding on for, was Christ, her Good Shepherd: who is with us and caring for us and calling us to more. And so it is. And so it shall be.

And so it shall be particularly memorialized for Cindy later this year when a new stained-glass window is installed at St. John’s. It will complete the series of windows that already surround us here in the nave. Each of these windows depicts one of Jesus’ famous “I am” statements from the Gospel of John. But curiously, one of those “I am” statements was never included: “I am the Good Shepherd.” But soon, that that will be rectified. A rendering of Cindy’s “Good Shepherd” window is on the cover of your bulletin.

And that sheep we see there: it shall be, especially for us, a symbol of Cindy, always with us. And it will be a symbol of each of us, in the church and beyond. It shall be each sheep whom the shepherd loves. “So there will be one flock, one shepherd.” And that existential experience of aloneness will be no more.

In Cindy’s life (as in all lives), there were seasons of plenty and seasons of want, seasons of togetherness and seasons of aloneness; seasons of sight and seasons of darkness.

It’s noteworthy, to me, that her childhood home in Tacoma was actually just a portion of what had originally been one enormous house. At some point, that house was literally cut in two and separated, and she was raised in part of it. It’s a symbol of sorts, of this same theme – how (for all of us) our lives are lived in part, but how ultimately, all shall be restored as one.

As Jesus says elsewhere, “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also.” This picture of heaven that Jesus gives us: it is of just one house – the Father’s house – in which all shall dwell together.

Cindy lived in many homes over the years. She was born in Montreal, Canada, where her dad was a student at McGill Medical School. They then moved to Tacoma. In the fourth grade, her family moved to Gig Harbor, overlooking Hales Pass, where she had a horse named, “Beauty,” and two collies – the quintessential 50s childhood of Black Beauty and Lassie. She then went to college at the University of Colorado, on track to become a doctor or nurse. But, like so many of her generation, she cut her education short in order to get married, becoming now an army officer’s wife. Then began in earnest that season of constant moves: Japan, New Mexico, California, Maryland, Germany, Moses Lake, Chicago. Then, after her divorce, it was back home to Gig Harbor where she spent the rest of her days.

Cindy loved Washington, most of all. She loved her state – the best of all states – and was boastfully proud of it: the majesty of the mountains, the pristineness of the Puget Sound, the soaring heights of the fir trees; the people, the businesses, the infrastructure. She loved it. And now here, in Washington, in Gig Harbor, she shall remain. As the service ends, today, her sons will carry her ashes out to St. John’s Memorial Garden, where she will be laid to rest, “in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life.”

It is fitting that her sons should carry her. After all, she was the one who first carried them – in the womb, then in her arms, and in her heart throughout their lives. When she became a single mom, she returned to school and – in just two years – became a nurse and was able to provide for them and launch them into adulthood.

I remember visiting Cindy, not long before she died. She knew what was coming. And as we talked about her life, and all she’d experienced, there was just one thing that rose to the top – one thing of which she was proud and could rightly say, “I did it.” And that was raising her sons, Lane and Scott. She did it, and did it well. And she knew it. In preparing to die, she could do so in peace, for she had done that one, most important task she’d been given. Well done, good and faithful servant. Well done.

Perhaps not so well known, is that Cindy’s vocation of mothering included more than her sons. There was also Beth, born in 1966 while the family was stationed in Germany. Beth had a severe cleft palette along with other complications. As Scott recalls, “Mom had to stay in the hospital much of the time to care for Beth. She was the only one who could feed Beth because it took great patience and tenderness, which she had. She had several months of frustration trying to address all Beth’s health issues. By the time the doctors correctly diagnosed her problem, Beth died on the operating table.” She was just four months old.

When a parent loses a child, there is a kind of sorrow that imbeds itself and never goes away. I do not know what it meant for Cindy to carry the bereavement of Beth’s death with her for nearly 60 years. But, just as Cindy’s memorial window will recall for us the hope of her one oneness with Christ, there’s another window in this church that did the same for her. The one there, on the right side, in the center with the three lilies, was given by Cindy and her sister Kate in memory of their mother, and in memory of Beth Ann. “I am the resurrection and the life,” says the Lord. “Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live.”

Beyond the love for her children and grandchildren, Cindy had known a wealth of friendships. Especially in the dynamic years of young adulthood – in college and as an army wife – she made and maintained a lot of friends. As the years went by, this network of relationships got smaller, but also deeper: with her sister Kate, her close friend (also named Kate) in Oregon, with Robbie Inglis, the choir director here at St. John’s for so many years.

And there abided in Cindy – even in blindness – the ability to see and value those around her. Nurses don’t always make the best patients. But I was so impressed, when visiting Cindy in the ICU, how well she treated the nurses who were treating her. Being in the ICU can be scary, and we don’t always behave well when we’re scared. But Cindy did. She showed them such respect and dignity. And they, in turn, respected her.

It was the same with me. We didn’t agree about everything, but she honored me and always treated me well – was always glad to see me. And I am grateful for the distinctive place she has had in my life and the life of this church. There are few living parishioners whose memories of St. John’s stretched back as far as hers did.

But, now, her time has come to live forward, into the fruition of life for which her faith prepared her.

As she heard promised so long, every time she listened to Handel’s Messiah, so shall it now be true for her: “Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith your God. Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem, and cry unto her, that her warfare is accomplished, that her iniquity is pardoned.” Amen.