DialogueWN BULL

Issue 62 Summer 2013

Editorial Office: 164 King Street, Newtown NSW 2042 Phone: (02) 9519 5344 Fax: (02) 9519 4310 Email: wnbull@wnbull.comWeb: www.wnbull.com.au

Member of InvoCare Australia Pty LimitedABN: 22 060 060 031

Dialogue Publications © 2013

ISSN: 1832-8474

Dialogue is published quarterly by

Dialogue Publications - a publishing division of

WN Bull Funerals

Editorial Board: Richard White Patsy Healy Greg Bisset

Production: Phillip Pavich Email: phillip@depotspot.com

Copies of Dialogue can be obtained by calling (02) 9519 5344

Cover image: Fresco of Nativity scene by Karl von Blaas

ContentsDialogueWN BULL

EditorialIt’s Christmas again and I find myself revisiting the Christmas story. I am sure that even in the most Santa infested celebrations, there is something of this original and mysterious event.

And, there are three things I want to say about Christmas and they are relevant to this edition and maybe every edition of Dialogue.

The first is that this story is about care and wonder. A mother and child and a protective father is the central, iconic image. Helplessness and care go together; vulnerability and concern go together. Then, there’s the star that guided the Wise Men and which crowns the top of so many Christmas trees. ‘Star of wonder, star of night, star of untold beauty bright . .

If I believe, even in the face of all the sadnesses and tragedies of human life, that at the heart of this human life there is present an infinite care and countless miracles, a veritable myriad of stars, then this Christmas story will be told and always told. And, the darkness would be pushed back and hope would live. That’s what a story like this can do.

Dialogue, and this edition is no exception, is about the telling of stories. Doris Zagdnaski is a great story-teller as well as a wise bereavement counsellor. Her treatment of Christmas and grief can ‘push back the darkness’ a little and open the way to hope and new life. Cecile Yazbek and Wendy Starkie, from different parts of the world, tell stories about home and family that touch the sadness of loss and of leaving.

The affection that surrounds the house and the parting, the loving remembering, comes from a heart-taught capacity to care. And, the conversation with Sue Dunbar and explanation of spiritual direction takes us to the care-ful listening that allows the heart to speak and be heard.

The two articles relating to WN Bull Funerals, the one by Greg Bisset, COO of InvoCare, and the one about the Good Samaritan Foundation Scholarship describe in different ways the interweaving of the commercial enterprise and the wider community. Such support and involvement enrich all concerned.

Then, there’s the celebration of Steve Ross’ becoming a Fellow Embalmer of the Australian Institute of Embalmers and the recognition of personal achievement as well as the quality of care offered by WN Bull Funerals.

Finally, almost, there is the delightful whimsy of Erica Greenop. Erica has fun with words and with stories and laughter and smiles are stars in human form and the flowering of hope, a mixed metaphor for which I beg forgiveness.

This edition has a couple of Letters to the Editor. It has been suggested that such a feature would give the Editorial Board and writers the possibility of feed-back and enhance the nature and service of the magazine.

Wishing you and all who invite, and create, care and wonder in your lives a blessed Christmas!

From all of us at WN Bull Funerals.

Richard White

1 Editorial

22 Recommended Reading

24 Poet’s Corner

Regulars

Features2 Not a Grief Counsellor, Not a

Psychologist . . . A Spiritual Director

5 'A Legacy Passed on and Kept Alive'

6 Remembering Those Special Days

9 Coping with Grief at Christmas Time

10 This Old House

12 How Families Were Made

14 An Award that “Means Everything”

18 Letters to the Editor

20 To Bury the Dead - A Work of Mercy

Issue 62 Summer 2013

Issue 62 Summer 2013

Issue 62 | Summer 2013 1

In my seven or so years as Director of Bereavement Services with WN Bull Funerals, I attended a number of conferences and workshops on grief and bereavement. Often the presenters were well known names from the United States or Europe.

Like Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, with her Five Stages, there were helpful theories or models that became associated with particular people – The Dual Process Model, Continuing Bonds, Grief Work, Meaning Reconstruction, Disenfranchised Grief . . . And there were research studies

that identified groups of people who were particularly prone to Complicated Grief and other disabling conditions.

All of the above was taken very seriously, by both the presenters and many in the audience. I soon realised that I would come away from these conferences with a dull feeling of incompetence. I am not a researcher and I was often bamboozled by the arguments and counter arguments that seemed necessary to win acceptance for a theory.

What I did appreciate in my conversations with grieving people was that some of these theories seemed to make

This article is inspired by a series of conversations with Sue Dunbar. Sue is Director of Barnabas Ministries Inc, a not for profit, incorporated ministry, in Canberra. We began our conversation at the annual conference of the Australian Network for Spiritual Direction. The question of grief came up and I asked Sue about her experience of working with grieving people, as a spiritual director. I came away from that conversation a little clearer about the roles different people might play in addressing our emotional, psychological and spiritual needs.

sense of their chaotic feelings. Helping people to realise that they were not going mad was an important part of our meetings. Sustaining them as they struggled with the emotional impact of loss and the finality of death, was important too. I think this is what a bereavement counsellor does.

I know counsellors, too, who come to recognise patterns in people’s grief that are deep seated and distressing and persistent. They come to a stage where they believe someone needs more specialised help and refer a client to a psychologist or a psychiatrist. Such a referral may well be part of a treatment regime that allows for progressive and collaborative care. But, as Sue talked about spiritual direction and grief, I began to see that there were some difficulties with the counsellor-psychologist-psychiatrist model.

Despite the countless skilled and compassionate professionals in all three approaches to grief and grieving people, one cannot help but feel uneasy about seeing grief as a problem. It certainly is a painful and often disruptive experience in people’s lives. It can be crippling and long lasting. But, the conscious or unconscious desire to alleviate or remove the pain and to cure the grief can be

limited in both intent and efficacy. Sue was not saying this when I talked with her, but how she spoke about spiritual direction led me to this conclusion. The emotions and the psyche are only part of the picture. What about the soul, that part of us that is deeper than our emotions and our pain.

Recently I was speaking with a woman who had experienced considerable grief in her life. But, professionally and personally there were signs that she was turning a corner. Things were on the improve and she was feeling better. Then, a long standing condition flared again. There was the possibility that those gains would all be lost.

‘What have I done? Am I not meant to have peace and happiness in my life?’ These are not questions that have an answer. We all know people who are rarely assured by reassurances. These are cries of pain before they are cries for help. There was an opening. There was hope. Now the door has closed again.

Sue used this expression, when speaking of grief, ‘a door has shut’. I had the image of a door slamming, finality, violent, noisy. Sue gave the example of locking her keys in the car. There was that split second, just before the door closed and locked, of seeing the keys in the ignition,

powerless to prevent the inevitable. Bang! And the long wait for the NRMA begins. We cannot turn the clock back.

We cannot go back, either. The person I was before a death or a significant loss is no more. I am not the same. Life has changed and I have changed. And, these changes bring fear and confusion and those wild, desperate questions uttered by my friend, ‘What have I done?’

They are cries from the heart to the heart. I sensed that this was what Sue was saying. She spoke of the spiritual director having ‘hospitality of the heart’. Like her image of the door closing, and the experience of finality, ‘hospitality of the heart’ called forth images, in this case of welcome, acceptance . . . patience.

I am reminded of George Herbert’s poem, ‘Love’.

Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew backGuilty of dust and sin,But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slackFrom my first entrance in,Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioningIf I lack’d anything. . .

This hospitality allows a person to cry out. The welcome and acceptance enables someone to feel and know the

Not a GriEf CoUNsELLor, Not a PsyChoLoGist . . .

written by Richard White

a sPiritUaL DirECtor

The emotions and the psyche are only part of the picture. What about the soul, that part of us that is deeper than our emotions and our pain.

The person I was before a death or a significant loss is no more. I am not the same. . .

Issue 62 | Summer 2013 32 Issue 62 | Summer 2013

CCO of InvoCare, Greg Bisset with Patsy Healy and John Harris

finality of loss, the door slammed shut and all that this means. Such experiences are more than emotions and psychological crises, although they may include all of this. To know this sense of loss, to know there is no turning back is to bring one to one’s knees, figuratively and literally. To find welcome and companionship at this time is a precious gift.

If the spiritual director can maintain that ‘hospitality of the heart’ there is no anxious concern about curing or removing the pain. All the pain and confusion is given welcome. All of the person is given welcome. Then, there is the possibility of new life.

Sue’s faith is based on the foundational Christian belief of death and new life, the pattern that is stamped on our lives, deeper than DNA. But, there is no easy path to this fundamental movement. Death is always final and sometimes shocking, painful. Of its very nature, death and all those mini dyings that are part of our lives, have the door closing reality. ‘It is over. There is no going back’.

It requires considerable faith and courage to be a spiritual director. The resistance and fear voiced by the person who comes is echoed in their own life and heart. These are matters of the heart and soul. They are not to be ‘cured’. They are to be lived and shared and understood.

This is the work of the spiritual director. This is a person who believes that a new self and new life can emerge from every death experience. It is a delicate and sensitive role. The spiritual director needs to affirm or witness that the upheaval of death-and-life is the source of the distress experienced by the person. Those cries have no answer. By being present and patient, loving and believing, the spiritual director can assist in the birth of new life.

The conversation with Sue has not finished. But, I think the ways in which Sue spoke about spiritual direction and grief opened up ways of thinking about this all-too-human experience. I was also encouraged and enlightened about a practice, spiritual direction, that I thought I understood.

Sue Dunbar and Barnabas Ministries Inc can be contacted: Phone: 02 6295 6766 Email: suedunbar53@yahoo.com; Web: www.barnabasministries.org.au

John Harris (former owner of WN Bull), Patsy Healy, General Manager, and Greg Bisset, COO

of InvoCare, recently attended the Sydney Catholic Business Network’s (SCBN) lunch at the Sydney Hilton, which featured keynote speaker, Kathryn Greiner AO, on the topic of “If 70 is the new 50, why aren’t more of us in the workforce: The impact of ageing baby boomers”.

Recently appointed as Chair of the NSW Ministerial Advisory Committee on Aging (MACA), Kathryn has distinguished herself in a career taking in fields as diverse as social work, business and local government. With the breadth of her experience and her passion for this topic clear in her words, Kathryn spoke eloquently about the reali ty of an ageing population, and about creating a work-life balance in a workforce still acclimatising to the changing role of mature workers.

We are now living longer than ever before, and any plans we once had about long retirements are being challenged by cost of living pressures, that mean we may have to work a lot longer than anticipated. This raises all sorts of questions about the

accessibility and workplace equity that is currently extended to older workers.

Mature workers are repositories of knowledge and experience that make them extremely valuable to employers; they are able to inject significant value into an organisation yet are in need of a range of work-life balance measures that accommodates their passions, interests and unique family responsibilities.

WN Bull and InvoCare, as a Department of Education, Employment and Workplace Relations’ Corporate Champion for mature age workers, greatly value the contribution older workers can make to corporate life.

John Harris, the former owner of WN Bull Funerals earned the respect of the funeral industy and the community. John was an insightful and compassionate funeral conductor. He was also the consummate business man. The ongoing success of WN Bull Funerals is due in no small measure to John and his wife Agnes’ hard work and understanding of the funeral business. Although retired, John retains an interest in the business world and in WN Bull in particular.

The following article, written by Greg Bisset, Chief Operating Office of InvoCare, the current owners of WN Bull, describes the breadth and community interest of InvoCare and of Patsy Healy, General Manager of WN Bull. John Harris’ presence at the business lunch is an assurance that his experience and business acumen continues to be available to his successors. Editor

By being present and patient, loving and believing, the spiritual director can assist in the birth of new life.

Mature workers are repositories of knowledge and experience that make them extremely valuable to employers.

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Issue 62 | Summer 2013 54 Issue 62 | Summer 2013

When experience counts

Celebrating

(02) 9519 5344 wnbull@wnbull.com www.wnbull.com.au

In the 120 years WN Bull Funerals has been serving the people of Sydney there has been significant growth and change in the community. We are proud to have been able to readily adapt to these changes and remain compassionate, sensitive and responsive to the needs and wishes of our client families.WN Bull is especially proud of its heritage of providing real comfort and care when caring for the deceased and their families. This care extends to the recommendation of prepaid funeral plans. A prepaid WN Bull funeral will assist family members and ensure that every detail is attended to. When the care you seek is unconditional – talk to us.

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Dialogue ad_PREPAID_1.indd 1 14/09/12 3:15 PM

I have often wondered why it’s acceptable to openly remember public figures or wartime deaths or those which resulted from natural disasters, terrorism or large scale accidents. Barely a year goes by that we are not reminded of the anniversary of the deaths of Elvis Presley, John Lennon, Princess Diana and like now, JFK. But in our own lives, remembering and observing the death of someone close to you is meant to be a private event. You should be trying to forget. You have to move on. You can’t live in the past. We have many ways of encouraging grieving people to keep their grief to themselves.

With JFK’s anniversary behind us and the festive season almost upon us, it’s timely to talk about how grieving people can observe special days on the calendar. These are the days that come around every year, bringing with them reminders, memories and very often a silent vigil of remembrance.

“In those first few years I watched the calendar like a hawk. It was telling me how long we’d lived without her. That first anniversary was the pits, but the second and third weren’t much better. When the actual day came it wasn’t as bad as the days of my private count down …”

Birthdays, a wedding anniversary, festive times like Christmas, Easter and Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, holidays, the anniversary of the death and more are significant days for most grieving people. By allowing a grieving friend to openly remember on these days we do something beneficial for them. We actually join them in saying, ‘This person mattered’ or ‘This person was really special to you.’ After all, if we allow people to remember a tragedy that occurred in some other part of the world or if we celebrate the memory of a pop star or some public figure who we didn’t even know, why is it so odd that a friend should want to remember their child, partner, parent, whoever?

You know what I think? Outsiders believe that the bereaved are remembering the death, and dwelling on their grief. Sure, they can’t forget what happened nor the person who died, but I believe what they want to remember, talk about and celebrate is what that person meant to me. They are remembering someone who mattered. Remembering in itself, is not a sign of unresolved grief. For some grieving people it is as much a mark of respect as it is an annual observance.

So what can a friend do? You can make a phone call or send a note which says, ‘I remember too.’ You don’t have to worry about upsetting your friend because you

are reminding them – they haven’t forgotten they once had a mother, a husband or a child!

Or you can endorse and support the idea of doing something to remember – going to a favourite place that was shared with the deceased, having a family meal and serving something which the deceased always loved, lighting a candle at church in their memory, lighting a candle at home beside their photograph, baking a birthday cake and sing a round of ‘Happy Birthday to you’.

If you are aware that a significant date is coming up for a friend, the lead up to this time is often worse for the bereaved than the day itself. So a visitor who calls in for a chat, or brings along a bunch of flowers or a six-pack of beer can be a welcome sight.

My friend organised a BBQ on the first anniversary and she brought the beetroot – because my husband never had a barbie without beetroot.

One evening at dinner, my husband suggested we make some plans to include our daughter Ashleigh in our traditional Easter celebrations. Our two sons were delighted and it also opened

up all new avenues to remember their sister. I can remember the tension lifting as we spoke of our ideas … (the boys) dyed Easter eggs and lovingly decorated two for their sister … we ordered a beautiful posy of pink and white flowers for her grave … we all said some special words, shed some tears …We went on to celebrate together, speaking freely for the first time in many months.

Whilst the cemetery can be a focal place for family to gather to remember, some people choose not to be frequent cemetery visitors – and this should not be criticised either. You don’t need a trip to the cemetery to show you’ve remembered.

Thinking of my own experience, I can still remember the first Christmas without our daughter Claire who died suddenly six months earlier from cot death. Though it was 1980 it’s still etched in my mind. Our family gathered as we always do and I can still see us around the dinner table trying to be ‘normal’ and not focus on who was missing. I just wish someone would have said her name aloud and mentioned what we were all thinking as we pushed our meal around our plates. We

As I’m writing this, the world is remembering President John F Kennedy – it is 50 years since his death on 20 November 1963. It’s in the newspapers, on every news channel and all over the internet.

rEMEMBEriNG thosE sPECiaL Days

written by Doris Zagdanski

Issue 62 | Summer 2013 76 Issue 62 | Summer 2013

always say Grace at the dinner table – I’d have liked our prayer of thanksgiving to have mentioned her name too – anything would have been preferable to that eerie silence that hung over us. I wish I had been brave enough to speak up myself but there was a huge lump in my throat and I didn’t want to upset everyone else, especially the little ones around the table.

So when my father died three years ago, I made a candle for my Mum to sit right in the middle of the Christmas table. I’m definitely not artistic but I wrote his name in gold on it and decorated it with some beautiful gold edging I found in a craft shop. It was hard not having Dad there, but this time I was going to make sure we didn’t sit in silence at the table he loved to share with us and how different it was to be able to openly speak of him and acknowledge how we all missed him – and raise a glass in honour of him.

So with thoughts of Christmas looming, I’m going to quote from the weekly magazine ‘New Yorker’, where the journalist Richard Rovere wrote at the time of JFK’s death:

‘The death of a President enters the house and becomes a death in the family... No other public death produces so personal an alteration in one’s world.’

A few weeks later at Christmas time, another journalist John Updike, walked down the streets of Fifth Avenue looking for this alteration, this ‘invisible difference’, between that Christmas and all others. He noticed the flags were still at half-mast and all grey from rubbing against sooty building facades. Then, looking at the crowds in front of St Patrick’s cathedral, he realised what was different about this year – “people are not determined to be jolly, they do not feel obliged to smile.” He wrote: “the sudden death of our young President was reflected in immobile faces around the city; it had taught them that a human face may refuse or fail to smile but still be human.”

For many people around us this year, their private, invisible flags with be flying at half-mast for their own loved ones who aren’t here. If you know of anyone who’s lonely this Christmas, who will struggle to smile and is feeling sad, anyone who’s missing someone, or who’s going to be alone on Christmas Day, pick up the phone, invite them around, show them you care … because it’s Christmas.

16

© Copyright Doris Zagdanski, 2013. Re-produced with kind permission of the author for www.mygriefassist.com.au - a community service initiative by InvoCare.

coping with grief at Christmas time

Doris Zagdanski BA Dip Ed

For some, Christmas is not the time to be jolly. For some people, this Christmas will be filled with sad

memories of someone close who is no longer here.

Doris Zagdanski is a leading figure in modern day grief and loss education. Her seminars are included in vocational qualifications in Allied Health, Counselling and Funeral Directing. Her books and free

factsheets are available at www.allaboutgrief.com

Facing your first Christmas without someone you love can be a very lonely and daunting time. There may be expectations that you will put up the Christmas tree, send out greeting cards, go out Christmas shopping and join family and friends for Christmas dinner...especially because others want to see you coping and moving on.

But when you’re grieving this can be really difficult. You may have no inclination or energy to ‘pretend’ that you are looking forward to Christmas when in truth you wish things were the way they were last year - when you were still together with your loved one.

On the other hand, some people want to handle Christmas time by doing things in the same way as always - not changing anything and keeping to the same routines and family rituals. Keeping to the familiar gives them comfort. Allow yourself to have fun. It doesn't mean you've forgotten the person or that your grief for them is over.

When you’re grieving, everyone handles their emotions and reactions differently. Here are three tips if you’re facing the dilemma of how to handle this Christmas:

1. Give yourself permission not to do the things that you’re finding hard to do - writing Christmas cards, putting up the tree, going to Christmas parties - it’s alright to let these go this year or next, until you can cope with social events again.

2. Make a point of remembering your loved one in a special way - light a candle for them on Christmas Day, place an ornament on the Christmas tree to symbolise them, buy a gift for a needy child or family in place of the gift you would have bought.

3. Allow yourself to grieve - the days leading up to Christmas (and other significant days on the calendar) can heighten your grief. Seeing other couples and families together just hurts. Seeing the empty place at the Christmas table will be hard to bear. It’s alright to cry and let people know that it’s hard living without someone special. Try not to bottle up your feelings. Now’s the time to tell a close friend that you’re struggling to put on a happy face and that you'd appreciate their company or simply their listening ear for support.

And if you know someone who is grieving this Christmas, give them a call, write them a special card, invite them over for a quiet get together, speak up and acknowledge their loss, and have the courage to mention the name of their loved one … and let them know that you understand that it may be a hard time for them because it’s Christmas… and there are memory triggers everywhere of a missing face, an empty chair and silent thoughts of the way Christmas used to be.

This article has been adapted from the book Stuck For Words by Doris Zagdanski © 1994

Issue 62 | Summer 2013 98 Issue 62 | Summer 2013

In many ways I felt I was prepared for her passing but I was wrong. When my brother Jim and I got together in the house where we had lived all our formative years, we were each concerned for the other. We knew Mam was being well cared for but she had chosen to pass and we knew we had to let her go. Our priority was for each other. Even though we never spoke of it, we both just knew. After all, there are only two of us.

Jim lives in Vancouver Island, Canada, and has a wife, children and grandchildren. They will always be there for him. I live in Sydney, Australia, and am a widow with no children. I suddenly realised how alone I am in the world. I have friends but they have families, which must come first.

The aloneness was almost overwhelming. The need for time to talk and be in touch with blood relatives was urgent. I realised Jim sensed my need and felt the same.

We had to prepare for the funeral, clear out the house, check all sorts of documents, and arrange things with the lawyer and real estate agent. It was very hectic and immensely stressful yet somehow Jim and I got on and worked together better than ever before. There was so much to do but we prioritised and it worked. We recognised each other’s strengths and let each other lead as appropriate. In all the emotional turmoil, stress and chaos we communicated better than ever.

Mam passed and the service went well. We managed

My mother died in May. She was ninety-nine years old and had had a good life as they say. She passed away a hundred metres from where she was born in Stanley, UK. She felt her life had come full circle.

all the legal stuff, the clearing out and the small but important things Mam had asked to be done with friends and neighbours. Suddenly it was time for us to leave and return home. Suddenly it dawned on us that we were leaving our home for the last time. We could never again just arrive and be welcome. No longer was it our house, our home. It was empty; it would belong to someone else. They would not know or care who we were or what the history of the house was.

I felt my deepest roots had been hacked away. I was afraid; I had nowhere to run to as a base, no refuge any more. I cried so much for that old stone terrace. I have travelled and lived all around the world. I always felt confident because I had that home to run back to if things went wrong as indeed they did from time to time. Now it was gone forever and I felt bereft.

It had a bathroom and kitchen from 1963. The shower dribbled lukewarm water; the loo flushed like thunder for ages. The kitchen was so small we called it a one bum kitchen. There was not room for two people to cook together. The living room was so small that more than three people meant we had to go into the lounge room to sit. Over six and we had to use both rooms. We ate at a table pushed up against the wall and as I was the smallest (later the most agile) I had to crawl under the table to get to the fourth seat.

I remembered as a child having to go over the yard to the toilet as we did not have an inside toilet. Very inconvenient and scary in the middle of the night especially in British winter!! I recalled squishing up in the settee to watch this new thing called television. It seemed to blow valves every week.

I remembered watching Newcastle United win FA Cup Final and all the men acting as if they had played every kick. I recall watching the coronation, which we had all heard about but the ordinary people had never witnessed. I laughed recalling my parents trying to get the Christmas gifts down from the top of the wardrobe where they were always ‘hidden’. My mother shushing my dad who was full of Christmas cheer and so not his usually coordinated self.

My brother and I laughing under the bedcovers, trying not to make a noise and so spoil the illusion.

Walking away from that old, cramped, inconvenient house was unlike any pain I had ever felt. It was deep and sharp. Since then I have felt strangely adrift. Part of this is grief of losing my mother but the pain of losing my house is another, larger element and one which I had not thought about.

Is this insecurity? I know I am alone except for Jim and I think I can deal with that. It does not matter if I am in my apartment in Newport, or anywhere else, I am still alone. Is it recognising my own mortality? I thought I had come to terms with death years ago but perhaps I am wrong.

Am I afraid of death? Not at all but I do want to live the life I have left as fully as I can. Is it about adaptation? I must recognise that my home is the one I bought for myself in Newport. This means I am my own person, my own entity. I am my family. I start a new chapter in my life. At my age that seems ludicrous but it seems to be true.

I recognise that it is the many facets of grief. I grieve for my home, my parents, the happy times we had. Immediately after a death memories are painful. However in a while the same memories become precious because they are all that is left to remember the people, the events, and the home. It may seem strange to grieve for bricks and mortar but a home is as much a part of the family as the people and the pets. I allow myself to grieve how and when and for how long I need and want.

Walking away from that old, cramped, inconvenient house was unlike any pain I had ever felt. It was deep and sharp. Since then I have felt strangely adrift.

this oLD hoUsEwritten by Wendy Starkie

Issue 62 | Summer 2013 1110 Issue 62 | Summer 2013

Mr and Mrs Chebli promised Edmond and his brother, Joe that they would keep in touch with their family in Lebanon and would remain interested in their prospects.

Across the valley, in a household of eight sons, Edmond and his brother, Joe, were the first to express the wish to seek their fortune overseas. Schooled by French priests, Edmond qualified as a teacher of English, French and Arabic but opportunities were few. ‘Before you go,’ his father advised, ‘you need to reserve a wife. The Cheblis, our distant cousins across the valley, are of a suitable class with two remaining daughters. When you’ve made good, you can return to marry and take your wives back with you.’ So it was that Edmond who was off to Africa, and Joe who was going to Brazil, made the contract with the Chebli family for their two daughters.

On a spring day after Easter in 1903, Edmond joined the throng on the quay for his voyage to the new world. His father saw him off. ‘I know that you will make us proud.’ He didn’t add how important Edmond’s success would be for their survival as the silk price took them from poverty to wealth and back again in the same season.

Four years later, Edmond went home and Lily prepared to meet her fiancé for the first time. Her wedding dress was hanging in the wardrobe beside a chest filled with hand-stitched linen and silk underwear. Eva’s brand new chest, half-full, stood waiting for space in the wardrobe.

From their bedroom window, Lily and Eva watched Edmond Khalil striding down the road toward their house. His black hair gleamed in the sun. His moustache would

have done a sheikh proud – waxed stiff and combed, there was not a whisker out of place on his round face. He appeared taller than when they last saw him.

Eva grabbed her sister and clung to her. ‘It’ll be fine,’ Lily said softly. ‘Our parents love us and make the best decisions for us. We have to go away.’

Eva stretched up to look out the window. ‘He looks n-nice. He’s wearing clothes like a t-teacher.’

‘Yes, he is very smart,’ Lily said. ‘Oummi told me that the houses in Africa are grand with servants to do all the work. It will be easy for me to keep my husband happy. No more linen folding.’ She drew her hand down the length of a silk dress hanging next to the window.

Edmond disappeared into the house and the two girls went to the top of the stairs. As they had eavesdropped years before, they listened again. ‘He has a soft voice,’ Lily said. ‘He doesn’t boom like some men here in our village.’

Edmond had plenty to show: diamonds and sapphires and a small gold bar for his parents-in-law-to-be sealed the bargain. Her father’s decision final, they were to be married and some months later, sail to Africa.

After Lily’s marriage to Edmond she moved in with his family across the valley. Edmond re-connected with old friends and cousins who were visiting from overseas when his younger brother, Joe arrived sooner than expected from Brazil.

Although Eva was only twelve, the decision was made that she would be married straightaway. Concern for her little sister flickered but Lily feared that Edmond could be told to silence her disrespect, if she expressed her opinion. Taken back to her home once more, she helped Eva prepare for her marriage. ‘Sh-Shall I be afraid?’ It was the slightest allusion to the drama the day after Lily’s wedding.

‘No, habeebteh, I was stupid. My mother-in-law has been very good to me,’ Lily said. ‘Now I am so happy to be here still for you.’

Eva’s excitement bubbled over, ‘Will I look as p-pretty as you?’

As soon as Eva was married to Joe, the two brothers decided to leave Lebanon for their homes overseas.

On the quay, the Khalil family clucked over their two departing sons, but there was no sign of anyone from the Chebli family. Lily and Eva held onto each other; they searched for their mother and sister, but not even their brother was there for them. Maybe their family feared another humiliating scene. ‘They must be watching us from home, from our window looking over the b-bay,’ Eva said. ‘That’s why they aren’t here.’

As Edmond and Joe came towards them, the sisters embraced before climbing into the lighters that would ferry them to the mother ships at anchor in deep water. Eva was being taken across two oceans to Brazil, and Lily, due south, down the east coast of Africa. With the growing distance between the boats, the two girls waved and hailed each other with an enthusiasm belying the grief that would descend once their ships set sail.

The two girls, Lily and Eva were folding the linen their mother’s helper had just ironed. As they pulled and shook the sheets, they wondered what their parents were discussing in the formal parlour. From the first floor window with its view across to the harbour of Beirut, they looked down to see who pulled the bell at the front door. They saw Edmond and Joe Khalil from across the valley. Eva grabbed Lily, ‘Is this the time? Are they g-going to send you away too now, like our sister, Zena who went to America and the Hage g-girls who were at school with us?’

Lily looked at her little sister whose speech always came with difficulty. She put her finger to her lips and hugged her with her free arm. ‘No, habeebteh, remember I have two more years at home and you, you are so lucky, you have four more years at home with our parents, Oummi and Bayee.’

Eva’s eyes widened, ‘And when you go, will you have lots of little b-babies?’ Lily didn’t reply. Her face grew

wistful, like the expression one sometimes sees on a pregnant woman’s face. ‘What?’ Eva pulled at her sleeve. Lily was thinking of her sister the day the cat had kittens in the bottom of their wardrobe. Eva was so excited to tell everyone, her head shook back and forth as fragmented words tumbled from her lips. These two children tied more to each other than to their mother, tiptoed to the top of the stairs to listen.

ImageThe Port of Beirut Lebanon

. . . ‘It’ll be fine,’ Lily said softly. ‘Our parents love us and make the best decisions for us. We have to go away.’

WErE MaDEhoW faMiLiEs

written by Cecile Yazbek

Issue 62 | Summer 2013 1312 Issue 62 | Summer 2013

In a marquee on the lawn of Admiralty House, on a beautiful October 8 evening, the Governor-General, Her Excellency, the Honourable Quentin Bryce, presented the scholarship to Kate Touzell, a Year 10 student from St Patrick’s College, Campbelltown.

Looking on were bursting-with-pride parents, Terry and Susan Touzell, and 150 guests invited to honour the work of the Good Sams Foundation, which provides financial support and resources for the ministries of the Good Samaritan Sisters in Australia and the Asia-Pacific.

When asked why she thought she was chosen to receive the scholarship, Kate responded with disarming candour. “In all honesty, I have no idea. I am just an average person.” She quickly added, “This scholarship means everything, absolutely everything,” particularly given the serious health issues faced by both her parents.

Back in 2010 Kate chose to go to St Patrick’s in Campbelltown because of the opportunities the College held out for her. “I had the idea [the College] would bring me from a girl to a young lady,” she said.

Sydney Harbour, still bustling with a flotilla of tall ships and navy vessels from the International Fleet Review, was the stunning backdrop for the inaugural presentation of the Good Samaritan Foundation Scholarship.

that “MEaNs EVErythiNG”

Adapted from a Press Release issued by The Good SAMS Foundation.

aN aWarD

14 Issue 62 | Summer 2013

The Governor-General addressed the gathering speaking of her delight in being the Patron in Chief of the Good Samaritan Foundation. “I am particularly happy that the Good Samaritan Sisters support women and children,” she said.

Her Excellency thanked Sister Clare Condon, Congregational Leader and all Good Samaritan Sisters for their impressive contribution to education and their long-term service to the Australian community and the Asia-Pacific region. The Good Sams, she said, were “powerful women”.

She recalled her fond memories of meeting Good Samaritan Sisters in Kiribati and of her joyful participation in the congregation’s sesquicentenary celebrations when she was Governor of Queensland.

Echoing the warm and long-standing association between Her Excellency and the congregation, Sister Clare expressed her deep gratitude for Her Excellency’s ongoing kindness and generosity. “Even in 2007 the sesquicentenary year of the Sisters’ beginnings here in Sydney in 1857, you planted a Good Sam rose in the gardens of the Queensland Government House,” Sister Clare said.

“Four Good Sam roses,” Her Excellency corrected, adding that they were “lipstick pink” in colour.

Sister Clare took the opportunity to acknowledge current and possible future directors of the Good Sams Foundation and announced that the Foundation was currently in the process of moving offices from Brisbane to Sydney in the hope of providing a more national focus.

“As a Foundation we are small but very focused on the needs of those most disadvantaged. We rejoice if just one person is in a better position because of our connections,” she said.

“The Foundation supports Sisters’ ministries in Santa Teresa, Northern Territory, the Inn for homeless women and children in Melbourne, transitional housing for women and children in Brisbane, and our ministries in Kiribati and The Philippines.”

Referring to the inaugural Good Sams Foundation scholarship, Sister Clare said, “Sisters of the Good Samaritan believe that education is the most powerful social mover in society”.

“Good Samaritan schools, since 1867 have offered and continue to offer an excellent education which is inclusive.

If anything they have a leaning towards those who for various reasons suffer disadvantage. Currently there are over 140 Indigenous students in our colleges,” she explained.

Sister Clare acknowledged the generosity of the sponsors of the inaugural Foundation scholarship, Carroll and O’Dea Lawyers and WN Bull Funerals.

Greg Bissett, Managing Director of WN Bull, said that his firm had a two-fold mission and role – that of customer service and giving back to the community. “If you say, what has this [scholarship] got to do with funerals? We say this is something meaningful and worthwhile. It’s a way of giving back to a very important part of the community.”

Lawyer Michael O’Dea concurred. “It’s a terrible loss to have a child with the ability to be educated at a more senior level withdrawing at Year 10 or anything short of what they’re capable of. So we’re only too pleased and proud to be involved in a project like this.”

. . . this is something meaningful and worthwhile. It’s a way of giving back to a very important part of the community.

For further information contact Sarah Fraser O’Brien, Executive Manager, Good Sams Foundation Ph: (07) 3254 0740 M: 0408 880 435

From TopGovernor-General, the

Honourable Quentin Bryce presents Kate Touzell

Kate Touzell, Governor-General, the

Honourable Quentin Bryce, Sister Clare Condon SGS

Images Jon Love

AUSTRALIAN FUNERAL DIRECTORS ASSOCIATION MEMBER

To receive a copy of

Testament of Requests ™

please contact WN BULL on 9519 5344

Issue 62 | Summer 2013 1716 Issue 62 | Summer 2013

It all began with the chicken stories, the quaint characters who lived in our garden when my children were growing up; the anxiety-ridden gender- confused helpless beautiful Jessica; the frustrated overwhelmed delusional motherly Phoebe; the dignified balding self-assured industrious Gladys; and Eunice the humble award-winning hunchback thespian. I had never thought of Editor Richard as a risk-taker, but he printed all the chook stories, Dialogue after Dialogue. I thought he had taken leave of his senses.

Richard saw value in my writing, my sometimes unusual and often not-listened-to view of the world, the reflections that pottered around from here to there trying to make sense of things. He worked hard to help me out of my stuckness, my resistance to worthiness; and being encouraged and believed in and finally being able to accept, the stories came tumbling .

There were stories about memories and moments and obscure stories and strange occurrences that have shaped my life, and Richard liked them all; images of autumn, images of winter, images of childhood; people I love, places I love; dung beetles; things that trouble me, entrapment and disability and affliction and loneliness; family history; change, poverty, sorrow, courage; travels and firesides and compassion and struggles and achievements; the brilliance of insight, the darkness of pain. Even poems, which I think must have been a challenge for Richard’s sensibilities; a poem about the rain on the roof, a poem about the love of a grandchild, a poem about a frog who

imagines he is a handsome prince, a poem of a cat talking to itself about freedom:

“It is easy to take the freedom you know for granted When you have never had it taken awayIt takes courage to choose the freedom you don’t knowYou don’t know what’s on the other sideOr how you are going to get there“But freedom I say is where the spirit is Or wants to beLike fresh sardines for the soul”

How prophetic is that! I thought I was writing about the longings of a cat living in a high walled garden, and I end up giving myself a profound message. The feeling of freedom in writing this collection of odd things has become something to do with understanding myself differently. It is as though I am newly hatched and find I have got wings and there is a gentle steady updraft to blow me in the right direction and glorious silver air that goes to the edge of forever to fly in and anything is possible.

In this space I can see more clearly that this is how Richard works. He hadn’t taken leave from his senses; he had helped me come to mine. And it all started with the chickens.

Kind regards

Erica Greenop

Can I take this opportunity to compliment and thank you on your quarterly issues of “Dialogue”.

I look forward immensely to each issue and I must say that from each issue I have gained some new knowledge. For example, the Spring edition and the article on Imagination and Healing. The Five Regrets of Dying was very enlightening and I have actually recounted this article and the 5 regrets to people over the last month. In the Summer 2013 edition, the article on Talking to Grieving People gave fantastic ideas on how to talk to people at one of their most vulnerable times. As you would well know, many people shy away from talking to the bereaved and this article could well have given one person, one idea on how to talk to someone that has lost a loved one, and that alone makes it such a special article.

The simple but effective and not academic way it is written is of major appeal as well. The stories and quick and succinct but always full of meaning and many a times, the words reach out of the page. All the writers that contribute should be highly commended on their writing.

The stories of people journeys with death of a loved one and their journey’s with grief are a privilege to read. They offer the grieving an insight into how other people are coping and give comfort to people that they are not alone in the emotions and thoughts they may also be feeling.

The pictures and poetry are also a favourite. I love the beautiful things in life, and your magazine shows great examples of these.

Again thank you for sharing these magazine with us, and for the hard work that must be associated with the publication, and please know that this magazine makes a difference, not only to bereaved people, but any person that has the privilege to read it.

Kind Regards

Leah Sutherland

Dear Richard,Dear Editor,

to thE EDitorLEttErs

to thE EDitorLEttErs

Issue 62 | Summer 2013 1918 Issue 62 | Summer 2013

It is a privilege to work for a funeral company. It is more than a business, more than a job. Even if staff may not consciously think of their role in this way, there is something blessed in being able to comfort and assure people. There is a line from a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins, ‘Felix Randal’, that often comes back to me . . .

This seeing the sick endears them to us, us too it endears.

If we replace ‘sick’ with ‘dead’, then we can understand why some people might consider it a privilege to work for a funeral company. ‘Seeing the dead’, caring for their bodies, honouring the trust of their families, being respectful . . . makes every funeral special. Such behaviour changes us, too. We, too, are ‘endeared’, made ‘dear’, kinder, more compassionate, more human, as our earliest ancestors became ‘more human’ when they buried their dead.

Steve Ross’ pride and enthusiasm about the renewal of WN Bull’s mortuary has its roots in all of the above. He is to be congratulated, too, in becoming a Fellow of the Australian Institute of Embalmers, after ten years of service in the profession.

There is a tradition in the Catholic Church of the Seven Corporal Works of Mercy. The seventh of these is ‘to bury the dead’. There is nothing peculiar to the Church in this practice. One of the signs of evolutionary change in prehistoric times was evidence of early humans burying their dead. Closer to our own times, there is Sophocles’ drama, ‘Antigone’. A sister disobeys her ruler-uncle’s command and buries the body of her brother, a rebel against the city. It is a reverent, loving act to care for the bodies of our sisters and brothers.

Since 1892, WN Bull Funerals have had their own mortuary. Recently, the mortuary facilities were significantly upgraded. Steven Ross, the senior embalmer, described in detail the new equipment and improvements made over the past couple of months. He spoke with pride and appreciation of the changes implemented. I have known Steve for almost ten years and I know where that pride was coming from.

Burying the dead is a work of mercy. Steve wouldn’t necessarily use those words. But, he is a well qualified

and much respected embalmer. He is also a well known and compassionate funeral conductor. He often meets the families of the people whom he has prepared for burial or cremation. Steve may also offer or be invited to talk with families who have come to see their deceased mother or brother or friend prior to the funeral. He can offer his professional understanding and knowledge to reassure and comfort people on this occasion. Mercy can take many forms.

written by Richard White

to BUry thE DEaDa WorK of MErCy

Mercy can take many forms . . . there is something blessed in being able to comfort and assure people.

Steven Ross, senior embalmer for WN Bull Funerals, receiving his certificate as a Fellow Embalmer of

the Australian Institute of Embalmers from Pauline Tobin, Chairperson of the Institute. This award is presented to people who have worked as an

embalmer for ten years or more.

Issue 62 | Summer 2013 2120 Issue 62 | Summer 2013

Helen Brown wasn’t a cat person, but her nine-year-old son Sam was. So when Sam heard a woman telling his mum that her cat had just had kittens, Sam pleaded to go and see them.

Helen’s heart melted as Sam held one of the kittens in his hands with a look of total adoration. In a trice the deal was done – the kitten would be delivered when she was big enough to leave her mother.

A week later, Sam was run over and killed . . .

The blurb and a combination of duty and desperation persuaded me. I needed a book for Recommended Reading. I was wary of sentiment and sensation. Could I find something here that would have substance as well as shock value? Would I become involved with this family, and their cat, and not just sucked in by the cuteness?

The story begins with the devastation of Sam’s death. Helen Brown, Sam’s mother, is an accomplished writer,

a journalist, with an eye for the image and detail. There were times when I found the descriptions too much. The starkness of the blurb was lost in the effort to convey a feeling or a crisis. But, that starkness that jolts me out of critical mode into awe and understanding came gradually, like Cleo, the cat’s, longevity.

rECoMMENDED rEaDiNG

written by Richard White

CLEo, hoW aN UPPity Cat

hELPED hEaL a faMiLyby HELEN BROWN

That small kitten, the heroine or narrator of the story, lived until she was twenty three. Her life and adventures covered twenty three years of a family’s life. This story is a narration, a sort of odyssey, beginning with a death then tracing an unfolding or a living. It is certainly the ‘healing of a family’ but it is also the celebration of a mother.

Sam was special, loveable in the slightly scary wise-before-his-years and independent sort of way. He had a great love of animals and his love for the kitten was no isolated event. Cleo, named because she looked like one of the famous Egyptian cats of antiquity, was fated to be special in a similar way to Sam. The fun-loving, vital young boy died taking a wounded pigeon to the vet’s with his brother, Rob. Two weeks after he died the owner of the cat brought the chosen kitten to the devastated family. Helen was horrified at this intrusion and all for returning the bundle of black fur.

After locking the dog in the kitchen she returned to the front door to tell Lena, the cat’s owner that they could not possibly cope with another animal in the house.

‘ I ’m so r ry Lena . . . ‘ I was abou t to launch into my speech. But then I saw Rob’s face. As he gazed tenderly down at the kitten, and ran a chubby finger over her back I saw something I thought had vanished from the earth forever. Rob’s smile. ‘Welcome home, Cleo,’ he said.

From this inauspicious beginning the cat becomes the refrain, the leitmotif, flowing through the family’s ups and downs. The animal employs her very ‘animality’, the unfettered and uninhibited energy that breaks open self-constructed prisons of grief and fear, shatters the rigidity of nursed and destructive pain and evokes the possibility and reality of new life.

Helen describes a kittenish attack on a rubber plant in the living room, early in the piece.

For the first time in weeks we revelled in the simplest, most complex healing technique known to humanity. Grief had pulled me so deeply into its dungeon I’d forgotten about laughing. It took a boy, his kitten and a rubber plant to engage me in a function essential to human sanity. The horror of the past weeks dissolved, padlocks of pain were unlocked, momentarily. We laughed.

The mood of the house was not a restriction for Cleo. Animals can pick up moods but they are not held in thrall by them, as humans often are. This is particularly true of cats. The animal had a freedom and mischievousness that took the edge off the dramas that punctuated Helen’s family, as they punctuate all our families. They are remarkably like a child in this, not unlike the description of Sam.

He was born with a wild sense of humour, a tool to test boundaries. When he was small I feigned shock at his use of rude words. He retaliated by following me around humming, ‘Bum, bum, bumble bee’. Never afraid of flamboyance, he’d flung himself fully dressed into a bath of water and insisted on wearing a monkey mask with matching feet for the duration of his eighth birthday.

It is never explicitly stated but there was also something of the sprite in Cleo. Not only the wil-of-the-wisp, prankster sort of thing, but the embodiment, inspiritment of the boy who had died. An accompanying playfulness and fidelity that brought the blessing and hope that the countless moments of death – the loss of Sam, the break up Helen’s marriage, Rob’s serious and possibly debilitating illness, Helen’s own serious health issues – were just that, moments, not the end. The cat did not know about ‘the end’, animals don’t.

Cleo did die, eventually. Her work was done. It was time to move on. Despite some initial misgivings, Cleo got me in. It wasn’t her antics or the personifications that captured me in the end. It was her presence, like a refrain, as I said earlier. Cleo was there, she was always there, as Helen’s life and family unfolded, like a book or a film.

It was not the obviousness of her antics but her unobtrusive accompanying that brought with it the awe and appreciation that remain with me. This is the story of a woman who lives and loves and suffers and . . . is fully alive. Helen wrote about Cleo but Cleo shone the light on Helen. The animal is the focus but the human, the humanity, is revealed.

It was the blurb on the back that persuaded me. Another second hand book. A nondescript cover and hidden among the usual thrillers and romances.

. . . the cat becomes the refrain, the leitmotif, flowing through the family’s ups and downs.

. . . As he gazed tenderly down at the kitten, and ran a chubby finger over her back I saw something I thought had vanished from the earth forever. Rob’s smile.

Issue 62 | Summer 2013 2322 Issue 62 | Summer 2013

Celebrate the Memories

199 Delhi Road, North Ryde Ph: 9887 2033 www.northernsuburbscrem.com.au

of a Lifetime

Choice of 4 art deco heritage chapels

Choice of 3 after funeral family meeting lounges

Latest digital technology in chapels and lounges

Concierge service

Café

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Northern Suburbs Memorial Gardens and Skyline Function Centre, North Ryde

Chapels of Northern Suburbs Memorial Gardens

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Generous parking

Visit Gardens daily 6.00am to 6.00pm and 6.00am to 8.00pm during daylight savings

Visit Gardens office 8.30am to 5.00pm Monday to Friday and 9.00am to 4.00pm Saturday and Sunday

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Visit the new My Memorial website for help with your memorialisation options.

I climb past the graves of the mothers and the fathers,The children and the grandparents,To the graves of the seven menLying high on the hill. They lie in a row,Dead at nineteen and twenty, twenty-two and twenty-five.Fifty-two years they have lain on this alien hill – Airmen, crashed with their bomber in 1943,Buried by the villagersAnd one of them my countryman.Tears fill my eyes for these young menWho gave their lives so generouslyFar from their families and homesAnd never returned.The villagers honour them each yearAnd I, having no flowers to bring,Honour them with fresh leaves;I place a stone for remembranceOn the headstone of my compatriotAnd take his memory back with meTo his distant homeland.

Þoet’s CornerGraveyard in france, Bussière-sur-ouche

by Marjorie Pizer

Copies of Marjorie Pizer’s books can be ordered from Pinchgut Press67 Diamond StreetAMAROO ACT 2914

•www.wnbull.com.au•