Dear Feryl,

I can remember your funeral.

I was there, and while I don’t remember many of the details, one in particular stands out. I’ve never forgotten that detail – the detail that you were there – you sang at your own funeral. You always had such a beautiful singing voice, and I remember hearing your tenor through the speakers in the church, praising God in the words of “What Wondrous Love Is This.” I think, though I’m not sure anymore, that I was the one who pressed play on the cassette that day to play it through the sound system. I definitely remember feeling honored at your funeral, and I think that was why – I was honored to be the one whose fingers brought you there in such a sublime way.

And what a song that was. You knew those words so well. They described your heart. You sang the second verse:

When I was sinking down, sinking down, sinking down.
When I was sinking down, O my soul.

You knew what it was like to sink down, Feryl. You knew that so very well.

I remember when I first met you.

It was just a few months after I graduated from seminary. I was a brand new employee at your church, with such a long title: Director of Education/Pastoral Assistant. I was so green, so arrogant. I was just starting to make pastoral visits at the senior pastor’s direction. He suggested to me that I should go and visit you. He thought it might be a good visit for both you and me. Feryl, it really was.

You were homebound at the time, and the reason for my visit was to let you know the church was still thinking of you, and also to share Holy Communion with you. I remember that you welcomed me into your home, and you were so kind, so quiet. You showed me pictures of your family. You were so sad when you showed me photos of your wife, who had died two years earlier. You were also so sad when you showed me photos of your adult daughters. You loved them so much, and they were very much alive. But you were sad because you couldn’t enjoy their company, couldn’t find the joy you used to find. You couldn’t find joy in anything anymore. You showed me your backyard, and told me you used to spend time out there, and found it to be so peaceful.

“Couldn’t you go out and just try it again now?” I asked. You looked at me and said, “No. I just can’t.”

You told me that you used to love coming to church, and that above all you used to love singing in the choir. I said, “It would be great to have you back.” You said, “No, I don’t think so. Not just now.” You smiled so courteously, so kindly, but there was no joy or happiness behind it. Just wistful, mournful sadness.

Before I met you, Feryl, I thought I understood what depression was. I had grown up with it in my own heart, and it had led me to attempt suicide at age seventeen. But there in your house, I saw another side of depression, a side I didn’t have much experience with. You were homebound because of it, Feryl. You were unable to leave your house, because you were in such a deep depression that seemed untreatable.

Over the next few months, I would hear about you from people at church. People there missed you dearly, and they would tell me about you, how happy you’d been, how loving and beloved you were, how important you were to them. They asked me if I’d ever met you, and when I told them I’d visited you at home, so often they said something like, “That’s not the real Feryl. I hope one day you get to meet him.”

On that first visit, you and I shared communion, and then I left, surprised that I wasn’t able to help you. Green as I was, I thought that I understood depression so well. I thought I had the answers. I didn’t. You were still home, still locked, imprisoned, behind the wall your illness had built around you. There were no words I had that could pick that lock.

I can remember the time I drove you to Friends Hospital.

You had agreed to try electroconvulsive therapy (ECT). It was something of a last-resort, for “treatment-resistant depression” like yours. But it wasn’t like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest – the procedure had changed significantly over the years, safer and with fewer side effects. I can’t remember how many sessions of ECT you had, but I remember that different people drove you there each time, since you weren’t allowed to drive for a few hours after receiving it. The church helped set up a rotation of drivers, and I remember when my turn came up. You and I had a pleasant drive into the city, I enjoyed walking around the hospital and learning about its history while you were having the procedure, and then you took me out to lunch afterward.

And as nice as the trip was, the amazing thing about your ECT treatment is that it worked. It actually worked. You came out of the depression, emerging as slowly and confidently as a butterfly. You became yourself again. I got to meet the real Feryl. And you were every bit as wonderful as everyone had said. You rejoined the choir. I saw you in church every week. You got to know me as I got to know you. You learned about my own struggles with depression, as well as my own struggles with self-esteem as the arrogance I wore as a mask started to wear off. And you were so supportive of me. You believed in me. And I found that having you there was always such a blessing.

I remember the time you were sick in the hospital in December. It was a physical ailment; your body was starting to wear out. I was traveling around the area with the youth group, to sing Christmas carols for sick and homebound members of the church, and I wanted to make sure we visited you. I remember your smile when we came in the room. You were so glad to see us. You sang along. And you told me, as you had told me so many times, “Thank you. Thank you for coming.”

It was just a few months later that I stood in the sacristy of the church.

I was thinking of you, saying quietly “Thank you for coming into my life, Feryl.” Then I pressed the button on the sound system, and your own voice entered the room where your funeral was taking place, as though sending us greetings from paradise, singing “What Wondrous Love is This.”

What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul,
What wondrous love is this that caused the Lord of bliss
To bear the dreadful curse for my soul?

And I remembered that day what you told me so many times. I still remember it today. Do you remember what you told me, Feryl? What you told me when you came back from the edge of depression, from your long sojourn with that dreadful curse? You told me this so many times, and I never tired of hearing it: “I am so blessed, because I get to experience resurrection twice. I was already raised from the dead, and I will be again someday too.” You had such a deep, abiding faith. You had such love for the church. You also knew such inner turmoil, and you were resurrected from it.

Oh, Feryl, you always gave me hope. I wish I could have known you longer. But I am so glad I met you. I am so glad I saw your first resurrection. I am so glad that I got to know both sides of you, before and after that resurrection. And one day, perhaps, you and I will meet again on the other side of your second resurrection.

Until then, I will hear your voice singing the last verse:

And when from death I'm free, I'll sing on, I'll sing on;
And when from death I'm free, I'll sing on;
And when from death I'm free,
I'll sing his love for me,
And through eternity I'll sing on, I'll sing on;
And through eternity I'll sing on…