LIFE’S UNDERTAKINGS

Friends who identify more as spiritual than religious often refer to life and living as a kind of earthly school.

For the majority of people following a spiritual path, destiny follows a trajectory; a mysterious pre-life of agreed-upon sacred contracts and teachings.

Of course, to keep things interesting, the universe ensures we forget everything, including our life’s purpose and passion, so we’re born as fresh and free as a baby daisy. Once we’re here on Earth in our “skin suit” (some of my friends speak like honorary Californians so bear with me) the big stuff shows up fast; we start learning lessons within this giant, magnificent classroom called Life.

As much as I appreciate spirituality, I am limited in how far I can lean into the idea that good things and bad things – I have seen many bad, sad, unfair things – are impersonal lesson delivered for the sake of teaching, showing and growing.

My funeral staff and I regularly sit with families who’ve been victimized and traumatized by crime, cancer or awe-inspiring cruelty.

Not once would we ever say, much less even contemplate, that a family’s suffering is part of a “lesson” or a dark curriculum assigned by the universe.

But it’s not just spirituality’s borderline preachiness or lack of empathy that stops me from connecting with their way of interpreting the mysteries and unfairness of life.

It’s that “Earth School” spiritualists offer up no classroom or graduation ceremony for life’s grandest and most life-altering lesson – death. (Yes, I do always end up writing about dying and death. I’m your local friendly funeral director!)

To ignore or dismiss death is to ignore and dismiss life. We need look no further than into the most recent grisly headlines. The unmarked graves unearthed in Kamloops and Saskatchewan are ghastly and horrifying because children represent life – sacred life.

People’s lives, irrespective of age, that end shamed, hidden and without mourning are atrocities. Take away all the media rhetoric, “woke” mob roars and political showboating, and you will hear generations of parents weeping.

Those babies were school children.

What “lessons” did they learn? Not one spiritual friend can tell me. And my religious faith is challenged when the large cast of historical perpetrators and predators includes men and women of the Church in roles and robes of teachers.

Forgive me. I realize my mood feels dark, especially when the sun is shining down on a summer promise of more freedoms. But when your life’s vocation unfolds in what industry experts call “death care” (true, not our best word play), I can’t help but look to dark seasons.

Summer is followed by fall and then winter. Like you, I don’t know what the future holds, although I remain hopeful that from shock and atrocity we learn to listen to one another without narrative or agenda.

Indigenous culture has a long and rich tradition of storytelling. Like school children, I hope we gather and sit down as a nation and truly listen to the stories demanding to be heard and honoured.

Stories about the dead and from the dead have been held sacred in every civilization until this one. So often we coddle ourselves and others from the shadow and impact of death. We turn away from formal acts of mourning, we minimize grief’s transformative power or we scorn hosting anything signifying that we were here on this planet and now we are not.

Our personal and cultural avoidance of death is juxtaposed by how the majority of us respond to dying and death when we have no skin in the game.

Take, for example, how millions of people are still mourning and celebrating a princess they did not know. Today people around the world are honouring Princess Diana’s imaginary 60th birthday. She died at 36 more than 20 years ago.

I don’t data dump those numbers in a cruel or disrespectful way. Yet contrasted by how often we don’t dare mention a deceased loved one’s name for fear of “upsetting” the grieving family, is it not mind-splitting to consider how we’re all still telling stories about Princess Diana? I see why: her life story and humanitarian deeds (and family tribulations) generate feelings of familiarity, unity, comfort and inspiration.

Cannot each life then, no matter how small or short, do the same? Can we not all be enriched and expanded in our humanity by the sharing of life stories?

And if stories heal and unite us, then why are we more comfortable mourning the famous than grieving the beloved?

Neither spirituality nor religion can answer these questions for me. I’ve been banging around in

BRAD JONES

Owner, Ridley Funeral Home

the dark for decades about how to bridge the gap between life and death so people feel more comfortable honouring the dead as a way of helping the living and healing themselves of fear and apathy.

In these secular pandemic times, my 3 a.m. musings have grown harder and darker. I have no easy answers, especially when we’re told to stay apart from our most vulnerable and fragile.

I know I’m not alone in wondering how to reframe death back into the ancient narrative that death is not an afront to life but an essential part of life that flavours life’s meaning.

The outrage and horror generated by those hundreds of unmarked graves go deeper than the wounds of colonialism and calls for reconciliation.

We’re horrified because we’ve grown immune to the strength and courage that’s demanded when forced to look at how death takes everyone – men, women and children – and everything.

Time and death are an impossible team to beat. As a society it is up to us, you and me, to deem lives – all lives – worthy of marking, honouring and grieving.

Yet right now we’re unapologetically, if not defiantly, a generation of “basic funeral” and “direct cremation” buyers and sellers. We don’t rush – we run from dying and death, and our lack of grit and reverence don’t serve the living or the dead. Funeral directors are not special in their ability to hold space for sad and beautiful stories. I believe listening to stories of the dead is hardwired into our humanity. Humans actually have a unique gene that allows us to tell stories from person to person, generation to generation.

The Indigenous around the world don’t need brain research findings to map out how we’re connected through all seasons of our lives. Our ancient ancestors listened to stories about the dead as a way to recognize, and truly understand and accept, that life is precious, short and holy.

Perhaps as we prepare to return to school we can return to ancient teachings. Imagine how different life would be if both spirituality and holiness were returned to how we live our lives, raise our children and honour our dead.

I see a new season rising where each of us is a sacred storyteller, sharing and listening to stories that remind us we’re worthy of celebration and mourning just for having been alive.

Brad Jones is president of locally-owned, commission-free Ridley Funeral Home (3080Lakeshore Boulevard West) in Etobicoke. This fall, Brad plans on perfecting his mother’s roast beef and Yorkshire pudding dinner (no gravy) so he can give cooking lessons to his six kitchen-avoidant children. You’re always welcome to reach out to Brad m by calling 416-259-3705 or emailing him at bradjones@ridleyfuneralhome.com