In Memoriam

In Memoriam
Jane Elizabeth Tennessen
July 4, 1962 – June 23, 1996

This post will be long, but I think it will be worth it because it’s about my sister.

Twelve long years ago my sister died in the Sandia Mountains of New Mexico. It was late at night with no one around to witness, when she and two other mountain climbers fell to their death. We did not find out until the next day that in the blink of an eye, a dear member of our family, my most trusted friend and confidant, was no longer in this world.

The pain of loss is always staggering. The pain of unexpected, sudden loss is crippling and blinding. There are no goodbyes. There is no chance to say the one thing you always wanted to say. There is no chance to provide comfort, to hold a hand or wipe a brow as someone slowly slips away. I thought, no I take that back: I knew I would never be happy again.

We were close in age, (I was 13 months older) and close as sisters. She was the first person I would have called in the face of tragedy. And in this tragedy, she was not there.

Snow buddies: 1967

Jane was a psychologist. Many people leaned on her. She did not choose a comfortable practice. She worked with some of the most vulnerable of the population. She worked with victims of cult and child abuse. She worked with women who had endured incredible sexual violence and torture. She was the clinical supervisor at the Rape Crisis Center of Santa Fe New Mexico. Her death left her clients without a trusted guide. Her death deprived many women in the future of seeking and receiving comfort and help from her.

Please don’t tell me there is a reason. I don’t need to hear that there is a reason. I trust in the love of God. I trust that God’s heart breaks at the sight of human suffering as much, if not more then those who feel the suffering directly. The greatest comfort I derive from tragedies I have lived through is the knowledge that I can hand my heart over to God and that it will be sheltered and healed until I am ready to take it back.

Each anniversary of Jane’s death brings another kind of introspection. Each year I feel something different. This year, perhaps because of what we’re going through right now in our lives, I feel some anger. I am angry at the person whose carelessness and arrogance put his two climbing partners at risk and ultimately cost them their lives. I feel deep sadness that the person I would still turn first to after twelve of being away would be my sister. I need her and she is gone.

And each anniversary brings a new awakening of an idea, a direction, a purpose for moving forward. This year is no different.

Poor College Students: 1982

As I went through my box of keepsakes, I found the sermon from the memorial service we held hear after returning from New Mexico. I spent two hours talking to a very patient man, Fr. Dale, about my sister. I introduced him to someone he never met. I celebrated her accomplishments and described the importance of her in my life and in the lives of others. My love for her must have driven me to be especially articulate in my descriptions because several days later Fr. Dale delivered a beautiful sermon. Twelve years ago, as it did when I read it today, it gave me reason to press forward.

Of course, despite my belief that I would never be happy again, I was happy again – very happy. I’ll always carry a bittersweet emptiness with each celebration. But part of each celebration is a tribute to my sister who was an earthly part of my life for nearly 33 years and continues to be with me as I move into the future.

After our last camping trip: 1992 (don't worry Mom, the tattoos are fake!)

I leave you with two things:

Fr. Dale’s moving sermon: he actually said more, but most of it was ad lib. I have the transcript he worked from and it is enough.

And a poem that came to a friend of my sister’s the day she learned of her death.

Thank you for reading, thank you for your friendship, thank you for remembering my sister, Jane Elizabeth Tennessen today.

Fr. Dale's Sermon:

“Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God.
But only (she) who sees takes off (her) shoes.
The rest sit ‘round it and pluck blackberries.”
(Elizabeth Barrett Browning, “Aurora Leigh”)

Jane was one of those who saw – every bush, a garden, a common rock, “afire with God,” “Earth crammed with Heaven.” Not only that, of course, but more than many of us, she was able to see those whom the world would consider “least sisters and brothers,” alive with the dignity of God. By honoring the life and dignity of God in every common person, she herself was a life afire with God, a living sign of God’s goodness to so may, God’s love incarnate.

Jane seems to have died before her time. To the question “why?,” we’ll never find a satisfying answer. We can offer all sorts of clever explanations, but, in the end, when we think we’ve covered all the squares, the pain, the sense of unfairness will still be there, and we’ll have to admit once again, that we cannot control life and death.

What we can control, and the question we must now answer is not why this happened, but what we intend to do now that it has happened. If we allow ourselves to become cynical, or paralyzed, or lifeless, we do Jane no honor. But, if the death of someone we love brings us to explore the limits of our capacity for love and fidelity; if it leads us to discover the God who alone is the source of strength in a sometimes cruel world; if we are able to better see “every common bush afire with God,” then Jane’s seemingly short life will have been complete. She will have accomplished the great Christian mission, because she will have led us to greater faith, hope, and love.

“Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God,
But only she who sees takes off her shoes…”

The lake we camped on: 1992

Katherine's Poem:

In Memory of Jane Tennessen

I come upon this mountain
Not to conquer, but to climb

To move across its craggy face
In inches
To hang my life upon the smallest bump
The ragged edges

To come to rest upon
the meanest ledges

Death is not the saddest thing,
The greatest fear

Is a life entrapped,
That makes me quake

It is the muscles never flexed,
Skin never slick with sweat

It is a passion never spent,
Fears not met

I come upon this mountain
Not to conquer, but to climb

I am a woman, climbing
I am becoming beautiful.

Katherine Eagleson – June 24, 1996