I love the way we all gather behind St. Mark’s Church, and I love the way folks approach under the green boughs of old, gnarled trees.

The sounds of the feet tramping over leaves and the birds winging their way along eventually give way to the charge of Hamish’s bagpipes, and tier wind rushing through the bladder is like the breath of God calling us to prayer. Rev. Stephanie speaks our invocation, and then intones the names of those who’ve passed on this year from St. Mark’s, with Cindy tolling the big, low handbell after each one. It’s an ancient and sacred ritual, perfumed by the sweet smells of dying leaves and the smoke whispering out from nearby chimneys, burning native maple and oak.

The bagpipes start again, and we walk out—not marching, really, it’s more somber than a march—led by three white-clad acolytes in white from St. Mark’s. Two with candles flank a third who carries a cross bound with a sheaf of wheat. It reminds us that the life of our sustaining crops are like the life of Jesus: they live, they die, and they are reborn again each year to feed us.

The Circle of Life Everlasting.

We follow Hamish and his keening pipes around on the driveway past soccer fields, where people stop running and point. Some take their hats off. Others stop and wait as we pass. Some just keep doing what they’re doing, as oblivious as if they thought the sound of the bagpipes was just another funny ringtone on someone’s phone.

We turn right on St. Mark’s Street, and Hamish leads us right up the road, mindful of passing cars, until St. Mark’s becomes Common Street, and at last we are font of the stately blue doors of Pilgrim Church. More folks spill out, including our choir. I share prayers and I read the names, and Cindy tolls that big, round bell after each. It’s hard to let go. There are always a few tears. The choir raises their voices to sing “Amazing Grace;” we console ourselves with the eternal—that God loves us, and God loves those who’ve gone on ahead.

Then, after a benediction, the members of St. Mark’s do go on ahead, in the rising wave of the bagpipes. Some linger a moment, shaking hands and catching up with old friends, before they repair to their respective churches. It feels so good to remember that we are not so different. We are one in Christ, neighbors and friends. And this journey? We may face the end alone with God, but along the way, good friends make the walk worthwhile.