Elizabeth “Liz” Frisino Funeral Sermon

I remember the first time I met Pat and Liz. It was 2012 or 13, I’m not sure which. I’d only been the rector here for a year or so and there was an appointment in my calendar for “Pat Frisino.” I had no idea who that was. And, at the appointed time, two women showed up in my office. I welcomed them. And before they even took a seat they said, “Here’s the deal. We were married 45 years ago when Liz was still a man. But she transitioned ten years ago and we chose to stay married. We’re Catholics and we love the Catholic Church, but they don’t love us. Will we be welcome here?”

I looked at them, smiled, and said, “Welcome to the Episcopal Church. Have a seat and tell me your story.” And that’s what they did – both that day and in the many years to come. And they soon discovered that, yes, they were welcome here.

It was always their story to tell. Some knew. Some didn’t. Some, I suspect, have just learned this part of Liz’s story for the first time. Clearly, Liz’s transition was an important part of her story. It was a struggle she’d carried her whole life. And the decision to transition was wrought with pain and fear – knowing the consequences that would come. But, as her niece Joanne, would later say of her: “My aunt is a true testament to the words ‘authentic’ and ‘brave,’ enduring a life where they felt hidden and not themselves, to opening up and truly being their true self and braving the world around them.”

Liz, herself, would say, that in 2002, when she looked in the mirror after the transition, it was the first time she felt like herself. Her daughter, Kathy, remembers seeing her dad for the first time after the transition. And, jarring though it surely was, what she saw before her was a kind of radiating happiness from him – now “her” – that she hadn’t seen in years and years.

Of course it was difficult for everyone involved. Of course, there was loss and confusion. Barriers were erected at work and in their social spheres. And…life carried on, as life must. Nothing is static. Nothing stays the same. There is no life, after all, that is not a changing life, day after day, season after season.

“For everything there is a season…a time to be born and a time to die…a time to plant and a time to uproot.”[1] And for Liz, there was a time to be a man and a time to be woman. Pat and Liz entered a new season of being partners and discovering what that would mean, as did the rest of their family. This is the way it is in life: things change. But what does not change is the centrality of love – a love that joins together what has been severed, a love that can walk alongside one another, even when not understanding the other, a love that endures for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, until parted by death.

So well done, you good and faithful servants, who have chosen the costly way of love.

¨

Liz was born in Brookly, New York, and raised on Long Island – the oldest child of Italian immigrants. Liz spoke dialect for the first few years of her life – a life shared with her siblings, Joseph and Carol, and countless cousins, gathering for countless holiday means overflowing with good Italian food.

Liz’s extended family would remain a priority throughout her life, most notably for the way she and Pat welcomed their niece Joanne into their lives when Joanne’s own father died when she was only three years old. “My uncle (meaning Liz), made sure he was always there,” she writes. “Kathy and I grew up like sisters. [He] taught me how to fish, boat and ski; he made sure I was part of their ski weekends in Vermont, that I went to church on Sundays with Aunt Pat and Kathy. I’m sure part of it was to give my mother, his sister, a break. But for me, it was to help me feel like I was a part of a “whole” family, always making Kathy and I laugh at silly jokes and just always making me feel safe and loved.”

Joanne’s mother, Carol – Liz’s sister – was her particular friend and companion throughout her life. Carol died a year ago, last Thanksgiving, and her loss was a deeply grievous loss to Liz. After all, as we age, sibling relationships often became increasingly important. They alone have known us at every stage and iteration of our lives. They alone were formed in the same home by the same parents and the same family dynamics. They alone carry the same memories that are sacred to our sense of identity. And there was, I sensed for Liz, an abiding sorrow that entered her life when Carol left this life.

The last year of Liz’s life was also filled with worsening physical limitations and anxieties. Aging is no easy affair. And it certainly wasn’t for her. But these last few years, were only a few years. They were hardly the whole of her life.

For her life was wholly rich. It was filled with the pleasures of being human. From an early age – high school at least – Liz loved having boats and being out on the waters on the north shore of Long Island. She loved to putter around and go fishing. Clare, her sister-in-law, remembers one such trip when she expected to remain in the boat fishing. But Liz had other plans. And soon they were in a shallow inlet, climbing out of the boat to go clamming, using rakes and their toes to collect their harvest, then bringing it home for a feast, with lots of laughter.

Liz loved to travel: Israel, Tuscany, Alaska, the Baltics, Norway, Mexico, Peru, the National Parks. She loved running and being out in nature, hiking and exploring. She loved to be out in the garden, getting her hands dirty.

And she especially loved to ski. There were nearly weekly trips up to Stratton Mountain, Vermont where they kept a condo. And, once they’d moved to Gig Harbor, she soon found her way up to Crystal Mountain. Skiing became something of a family legacy – a passion passed down to her daughter, Kathy, and then to her grandson, Liam who’s now an avid snowboarder. Kathy and her husband Ben actually chose to be married up at Stratton, so important had that mountain become to them and their family.

Liz’s career took her around the world. In early adulthood it meant serving in the army – first stationed in Germany and then doing a tour of duty at the end of the Vietnam War where Liz served as a supply captain.

Liz and Pat had met earlier in Madrid as undergraduates while studying abroad. Liz later earned her masters in Latin American Studies at Georgetown University, then took a position for Marine Midland Bank in Panama City where they lived for five years. That’s where Kathy was born. Later they lived in Florida, then back in New York, then in Texas, before finally retiring to Gig Harbor. Pat kept score: they moved seventeen times in their life together. That’s a lot of moves.

In retirement, Liz served as the chapter president for SCORE (Service Corp of Retired Executives), mentoring small business owners and entrepreneurs. At St. John’s, she was our treasurer for several years. But more importantly, for her, was her work on the Adult Spiritual Formation team. She taught a series of classes on various topics. She loved the apostle Paul. But – as any teacher will tell you – the person in the class who learns the most is the teacher. And, for her, it wasn’t just learning.

Liz was using this research for her own faith and faith formation as she struggled (as we all must) with the underlying questions about what it all means: Who are you, God? Who is Jesus? What is this life all about? And these aren’t just academic questions with tidy solutions. After all, in asking who God is, we’re also asking who we are: Who am I? Who am I in relationship to God, to one another, to the universe?

In Liz’s last days, when her voice was hardly more than a whisper you had to strain to understand, she spoke of the importance of these classes she taught and the conclusion she reached through them. It was no great thesis to be argued or defended. Rather, it was a peaceful acceptance: “I believe something changed in the world 2000 years ago.” Such a simple Christology – that in the person of Christ, the world became a different place. And Liz was satisfied with that conclusion.

Like the apostle Thomas in our gospel reading earlier today, Liz – in her way – reached out to touch Jesus through her studying and lesson planning. And, like Thomas, she reached a place a deep faith and could say, “My Lord and my God!”[2] And thus, she became one of those of whom Jesus spoke, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”[3]

Yes, blessed are you, indeed, Liz – not just for your faith in Jesus – but for your faithfulness, with Jesus, in having the courage to keep seeking a fullness of being. You knew deep in your core that your formation must include an ongoing formation of both mind and body. You yearned for more. You yearned to keep becoming, and you found the faith to believe it could be so.

This life does keep changing, and so did you. And, even now, there is a change we await. As your beloved apostle Paul once wrote, “So it is with the resurrection of the dead. What is sown is perishable, what is raised is imperishable…It is sown a physical body, it is raised a spiritual body.”[4] We don’t yet know what that means. You, Liz, are further into this journey than we – of this transition yet to be.

But surely, a transition awaits, when we, like Jesus, will be risen – recognizable and yet changed.

And so, Liz, may you find this life to come to be like that Karen Carpenter song you sang along to for so many years:

And when the evening comes, we smile
So much of life ahead
We’ll find a place where there’s room to grow
And yes, we’ve just begun.

And, yes, Liz, you’ve just begun. “For this perishable body must put on imperishability, and this mortal body must put on immortality…Then the saying will be fulfilled, ‘Death has been swallowed up in victory.’”[5]

[1] Ecclesiastes 3:1

[2] John 20:28

[3] John 20:29b

[4] 1 Corinthians 15:42-44

[5] 1 Corinthians 15:53-55a