In Memoriam: Frances Bockman

Today is the kind of day that would have annoyed Frances: all of these people making a fuss over her. Even so, it is important that we do it. It is important because as we celebrate Frances’ life and all she has meant to us, we also grieve, because we miss what we love. And so, beyond what we do today in this service, I encourage you to tell your own stories of Frances, and to do so again and again, even if you know it would have driven her nuts, because one of the ways that we encourage others in the legacies we have inherited is to pass them along. I can only speak of my own experiences. I was Frances’ cousin: to be precise, I was her first cousin, once removed. I grew up in the house next door to her parents Foster and Frances, whom we knew as Uncle Wig and Mama Spain. I also remember that Fran lived in the apartment above the garage in back, and that you would babysit my sister and me from time to time. I also remember when Claire and Hal and families would come to town to visit Mama Spain – mostly, though, I remember all of the hair!

These are some of the fuzzy memories of childhood that linger for me. And like many of us, I have only been able to make sense of those old pictures with the benefit of time and hindsight as they come into some clearer focus; and today, they help me to paint a portrait of Frances.

I knew I was related to all of these folks that passed in and out of the house next door. But I have this feeling that it took me a while to figure out that Frances was part of this matrix, too. You see, for the kids at First Presbyterian in the 1970s, she was a bit of a celebrity. She sang in the choir, so we saw her every Sunday in worship. On top of that, I remember spending a lot of time in the Library, where there was this aura around the Librarian. She seemed to know all of us by name. When it finally dawned on me that I was related to this famous lady, I’m sure my chest puffed out a little bit with pride.

As the years went by, I was fortunate to spend more and more time with her. In college and beyond, I would always make a point of visiting with Frances and Tom at their home on Battle Overlook whenever I came back to town. It was a family visit, certainly, among several when I came home. And while visiting my grandparents was enjoyable, there was always this sense of requirement about it. Visiting Frances and Tom, on the other hand, was refreshing, something I did of my own accord.

For me, Frances had a kind of spark that always felt so inviting. In her presence, I always felt like the most important person in the world. I remember once when I had returned from traveling around Europe. Frances asked me how it was. “Great,” I said. “I don’t want to hear what you tell everyone else,” she told me. “I want to really hear about it. I want you to come over and show me your pictures. In fact, I want you to show me all of your pictures, including the ones you won’t include in the photo album.”

Part of her interest in others, I think, was her sense that life experience could be trusted – for what it could bring and teach, for how it could shape in both its ups and downs. That’s why, I think, she was able to drop you off, Hal, for your cross-country hitchhike. And it’s why she was willing to camp out at the Farm with you and your family, Claire, to help care for the new grandbabies.

And unless anybody was unclear on this point, Frances was not a pushover. She could be uncomfortably honest. My mother tells the story of a spiritual retreat she attended with Frances and others. The mood was somber, appropriate for meditation. The room was dark, lit by candlelight. Everyone had readings to share, and struggled through them, unable to see. Finally, Frances said, “Oh, to heck with it,” stood up, and turned the light on so everyone could read.

It’s a funny story, and one that illustrates that forthrightness that was such a part of her character. And, in an odd way, it strikes me as the perfect image for what we do here today. I stand up here not just as Frances’ first cousin once removed, and not just as an ordained pastor, but as her brother in Christ. And in that, I find not only hope in Christ in the promise of resurrection. I also find meaning in Frances’ life that speaks to me of faith, of eternity, of what it is that holds us all together.

We seek light – the light of wisdom, the light to see clearly – and we seek that light not just for our own sake, but for the sake of the world, so that all can see, and see clearly.

I know first hand, and I have heard echoed in the stories you have shared, that Frances was always more interested in people than in things. She cared about you. She cared about you. She made you feel like you were the most important person in the world. She really wanted to know what you were up to: what made you tick, what interested you. She wanted to know what experiences life had brought you and how it had made you the person you are. And, when she saw fit, she told you the truth – even if it wasn’t the polite, genteel, Southern thing to do.

In all of this, I am convinced that Frances reflected the light of God – the same God who created her, who loved her, who redeemed her, and who now makes her perfectly whole in God’s holiest presence. That’s what our two Scripture readings point to so clearly: the Psalmist sings God’s praises, grateful that God knows us completely. There is nowhere we can go that God will not pursue us. And there is no darkness, no matter how meditative, that can outpace the light of God.

Jesus reflects on that same abundant, divine presence, reminding us of the thing that we so often forget and need to hear again and again and again: do not worry. Do not worry! We are God’s beloved. Why would we ever have cause to sweat the small stuff? The message, quite simply, is this: God cares about us. God cares about you – what you are up to, what makes you tick, what interests you. God knows that the experiences of life, whether pleasant or painful, have the potential to be lessons of faith for us, shedding light on the God who is at the heart of it all. And God, especially in Christ, may bring us face to face with the truth – even if it isn’t the proper, genteel, polite thing to do.

That, to me, is the gift of this day. In the stories we share of Frances, we not only remember ninety-one full years of life and love; we can come face to face with the heart of God, seeing God’s grace, mercy, and care shining through so that we might all see a little bit more clearly.

Friends, God loves Frances even, and especially now. And God loves us even, and especially, now.