Kari was a luminous soul, full of light, so much so that everyone who knew her said a room literally lit up when she entered. She was radiantly beautiful, outside and in. She took seriously her discipleship to Christ, so the glow was not only bright but also warm and comforting.
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| Kari Jo Whitelock |
Just before dusk kids and grown-ups from our neighborhood scooped sand into white paper bags, then placed votive candles inside. We turned down the edges of the bags and loaded them into our van, driving them to the Whitelock home. I paused as we were setting the bags, watching people I love and who loved Kari bending in sacred silence to place these tokens of love a few feet apart from each other around the Whitelock home. They lined up like holy soldiers, little straight white bags, up the sidewalk and along the road, into the curved driveway, the stone walkway through the trees, and up the front steps. One by one we lit the candles until there were 100 glowing bags by the time the sun set. They flicker still, as I write.
This is how our neighborhood whispers love to each other. We share light. It’s our Utah version of Pacific Islanders singing outside the homes of the deceased.
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| Before dark |
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| After dark |
For the last four decades our neighborhood has lit luminaries on Christmas Eve. When the kids were little we would do our dutiful parent prep after the kids were asleep, then drive around the neighborhood, usually around 3 am, our headlights turned off. If we were very lucky there would be a fresh falling snow. It felt like we lived in a snow globe, the houses of people we loved sitting dark and quiet behind flickering lights lining the streets.
For the last few years we have started honoring those among us who die with these glowing lights. They are a soft enfolding of our love around our grieving friends.
I am surprised how protective a thin paper bag can be, even in inclement weather. Even in the drizzle of this night Kari’s candles burn. Such a simple thing: a lunch sack, a small scoop of sand to add weight to the bag, and a humble mound of wax and wick. It works for hours.
I am thinking tonight that we tend to complicate things too much. We try to make everything more efficient and more beautiful, and in the process make it more complex and difficult. Really all we need, sometimes, is something that will simply protect a little flame so it can fill the measure of its creation. Then, when it’s done, like Kari, the memory of the glow can sustain us.
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| Love lines the walkway |
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| The Palmer home the night of Dee's funeral |
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| Annick and Randy the evening of their son Mark's funeral. |
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| The Shill home after Danae's funeral |
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| Danae had been Primary President in our church. The kids colored her luminary bags. "I wish I could blow you kisses every day." |
