A letter of thanks from The Rt. Rev. Pierre Whalon and his daughter Marie-Noëlle Whalon to the Convocation and the many others who have shown such concern and kindness since the loss of Melinda, is posted here.
The Memorial Celebration of the Life for Melinda Jane McCulloch Whalon was held at the American Cathedral of the Holy Trinity, Paris, France, on Wednesday, March 29. To hear the sermon preached by The Very Rev. Lucinda Laird, Dean of the American Cathedral, at the Memorial Service, click here.
In lieu of flowers, the family wishes gifts to be made to the AROSAT Association, which supports Dr. Thierry André’s research on digestive cancers, including those associated with Lynch Syndrome. For a tax receipt in France, go to:
http://www.fondationarcad.org/espace-…/faire-un-don-en-ligne, and add in the comment section "ce don en mémoire de Melinda Whalon est fléché pour le service d'oncologie du Pr André - Hôpital Saint-Antoine, Paris”.
If you would like to mail a gift to ARCAD US, please send donation to:
ARCAD US, c/o Gilda Herndon, 1613 30th Street N.W, Apt 3N, Washington DC 20007-2905, USA. Add "to the memory of Melinda Whalon”.
A Celebration of the Life for Melinda Jane McCulloch Whalon took place at St. George's Episcopal Church, Harbeson, Delaware, on Saturday, March 11. The Most Reverend Michael Curry, Presiding Bishop and Primate of the Episcopal Church was preacher and celebrant. Interment in the churchyard followed immediately after the service.
"Into paradise may the angels lead thee; and at thy coming may the martyrs receive thee, and bring thee into the holy city Jerusalem." (BCP, p. 484)
by Bishop Whalon
The sudden death, her jaw bound up with gauze, I arrive two hours too late.
At the chambre mortuaire, laid out in a coffin of beautiful French oak, its beloved burden being sealed in zinc for the passage across the Atlantic. Not the Styx. That passage had already happened.
The church, smelling like solder from removing the zinc cover. The crowd of family, friends, colleagues, come from far away, many of them. The terrible moment when the undertakers screw the lid back on the coffin, my wife’s face slowly disappears, forever. The bishop preaching one of the finest funeral orations I’ve ever heard — and I’m in the business, too.
Out the door, into the churchyard. A few people stand to say their peace, quite well, too. I scatter beach sand on the coffin, drawing a cross. The oak coffin disappears into its vault, topped by our daughter’s flowers.
Eighteen days later, a memorial service in Paris for those who could not come before. Another wonderful homily, glorious music. The crowd says their sorrys. I’m sorry too, I reply, feeling stupid. But there are no words, are there?
The dramatic is over. The quotidian begins, the daily slog.
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