Grimly Optimistic

Pastor’s Epistle—April 2026 Years ago, I saw a little miracle. After a funeral, in the bleak midwinter, we set out to the cemetery for a graveside committal. The wind whipped up something wicked, lashing at our coats and scouring any exposed flesh. The air temperature, without windchill, had plunged into the negative 20s. The family proved reluctant to get out of their cars, but soldiered on, following my lead. You should’ve seen the grimaces on the faces of the men when I took off my hat to pray, knowing that they ought to follow suit. Not that I could blame them. Have pity on the bald. Graveside committals typically don’t take terribly long. If one follows the Occasional Services book, we’re only out there for five to 10 minutes. At one point, the officiant—that would be me—pours out a cylinder of sand, the symbolic first handful of grave dirt, whilst intoning, “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Given that we were standing exposed in what felt like a wind-tunnel, I fully...