“I heard you die twice, once when they bury you in the grave
And the second time is the last time that somebody mentions your name”
– Macklemore (from the song “Glorious”)
As many have observed, including Ernest Hemingway, psychiatrist Irvin D. Yalom, and more recently Macklemore, we “die twice.” First, when we stop breathing, and second, when our name is uttered for the last time.
Over the past few years, this idea has become central to much of my work, as it was last year when I crowded with over 50 people into the cafeteria at the Johnson Street Warming Center in Missoula for a memorial ceremony. A table displayed pictures and poetry by “Lunchbox” and a piece of lined paper with these words: “Lunchbox saved GC’s life when nobody would. Much love.” These memorials reveal humanity without pretense; as the Missoula Spiritual Caregiver, I am asked to create such spaces.
I had no idea what I was getting into when I started. It was four years ago when I was first asked to assist with the Annual Homeless Persons’ Memorial, held every year on the Winter Solstice (check to see if your community has one). The invitation was to offer a prayer for all the unhoused who died the previous year. Before this, I had done dozens of memorials within the context of the Christian community of faith. In my mind, I was prepared. I wrote and offered a prayer at that community-wide service and then listened as each person who died was named, and the community echoed back, “We remember them.” I was shocked to hear “We remember them” over 25 times in our small community. This was the unexpected beginning of an ongoing relationship with the Missoula emergency shelter.
“Some day soon, perhaps in forty years, there will be no one alive who has ever known me. That’s when I will be truly dead – when I exist in no one’s memory. I thought a lot about how someone very old is the last living individual to have known some person or cluster of people. When that person dies, the whole cluster dies too, vanishes from the living memory. I wonder who that person will be for me. Whose death will make me truly dead?”
– Irvin D. Yalom, Love’s Executioner and Other Tales of Psychotherapy
I have offered more memorials for the unhoused in these last 4 years than I did in the previous 13 years for the congregations I served. The differences, in both preparation and the service itself, are stark and important. In my memorials for the unhoused, there is no family meeting before the memorial and no selection of musical offerings or readings. We do not check with musicians, custodians, or a sound technician to ensure their availability. If it is a veteran’s memorial, I may sing a verse of two of Taps myself, because there will be no bugler. We only consider the shelter’s schedule; we do not need to wait for anyone to arrive from out of town because no one is coming.
During the service, we gather in the courtyard outside or move to the cafeteria if the weather is bad. As we do, the sound of cars driving down Broadway creates the soundtrack. Eventually, staff and guests of the unhoused community wander their way together, occasionally joined by staff from the community medical center or friends from the recovery group. Family members rarely come. Instead, those present are the family of circumstance: those with whom the individuals lived their last months, weeks, days, and hours. As I begin, a dog barks, someone gets up deciding they don’t want to stay, and another person lights a cigarette. We remember those who have died right where they work, play, eat, and sleep. And yet, the real difference is in the stories shared by those gathered.
No one tells stories from their childhood. No one remembers what they were like as a teenager. The stories shared are not epic highlights and grand accomplishments. Instead, they are the everyday interactions in a shelter and on the streets. They are stories of kindness: “She always asked if I needed something from the grocery store” or “He woke me up at 6:30 every day to go to the gas station with him.” Other micro-insights include their favorite drink (Monster energy drink) or favorite color (pink). Someone might share a favorite song on their phone (Ring of Fire). There are also devastating stories of individuals dying just days before securing permanent housing and reminders of how challenging recovery is and how a relapse of any kind can have deadly consequences. Finally, there are the stories of chosen family: “He was my brother by friendship,” “My nephew by choice,” and “She was my other mother.”
A memory shared at a recent memorial gathering continues to haunt me. An employee recounted their visit with the individual in the hospital, where they were fed, warm, out of pain, and not worried that someone was going to steal their belongings. The employee got a glimpse of what this man would be like if his basic needs of shelter, food, and medical care were provided for him. Instead, the employee grieved, sat vigil, and watched him die.
“Every man has two deaths, when he is buried in the ground and the last time someone says his name. In some ways men can be immortal.”
-Ernest Hemingway
I am changed by witnessing these stories, these glimpses of life. Often, I get mad at systems that keep people unhoused and feel guilty for my secure housing. I am still grappling with that. Mostly, I am grateful to bear witness. We are changed by brief encounters; small micro-moments are brought into sharp focus when they become some of the last memories. Every life is worthy to be remembered, even, and maybe especially, if it is a life lived at the margins. These memorials are opportunities to acknowledge the differences made by each individual and to celebrate the good they shared and how those connections live on beyond their lifetime. Every time I lead one of these memorials, I learn anew that saying people’s names out loud matters. By doing so, we get to keep them alive a bit longer. In fact, it keeps us all a little more alive.
After 13 years of serving as a Montana pastor in rural and college communities, Courtney Arntzen became the Missoula Spiritual Caregivier. She ventured beyond the church walls called by the cries and circumstances of those who do not find refuge within a traditional faith community. These days she explores spiritual curiosities and sacred questions among people who are situationally marginalized or institutionally suspicious. She is a Cohort 5 Alumna of Start through the GLEAN network. She holds a Bachelor of Arts in Speech Communication from the University of Washington, a Master of Divinity from Regent College, British Columbia, a certificate in the Art of Spiritual Direction through San Francisco Theological Seminary, and a certificate in Spiritual Care and Trauma through the Shaw Institute of Chaplaincy.