There is a line in the wonderful hymn by Ralph Vaughn Williams, For All the Saints, that goes:

O blest communion, fellowship divine! 

We feebly struggle, they in glory shine;

All are one in Thee, for all are Thine.

Alleluia, Alleluia!

In a family gravesite in Mississippi, I have my own little communion of saints.  Not saints in the sense of perfect people who all got it right and did it all the right way, but saints in the sense of having made it home, having completed their course and now rest from their labors.  Most prominent for me is my father, a good man and an even better father who made a significant down-payment on my future in my four short years with him. He died far too young.  But he lives on in memory and story and in the two sons he claimed and did his best to “raise right” in the short time he had.  Each year I give special thanks for him and for all those who, in spite of their imperfections and shortcomings, their trials and tribulations, are, for me, saints nonetheless.   I recall my maternal grandfather and grandmother, Van and Grace Boutwell.  They were dead long before I was born.  I was named after him and I have been told that she was the glue that kept the family together during the depression, working at the cotton mill and keeping watch over a household that included an invalid grandmother and two small girls, my mother and my aunt, along with two of her sisters who occasionally lived with them. There was Sally, my great-aunt, who married Pete, an enlisted airman and moved to St. Louis.  They travelled the country and have pictures to prove it, but eventually divorced and she moved back.  She died of lung cancer and is buried in the family grave.  And then there is Maggie, the great-aunt who lived her life in the spirit of Mae West who always said, “When I’m good, I’m very good, but when I’m bad, I’m better!”   Aunt Maggie was a tall woman with beautiful red hair, a salty vocabulary and a questionable reputation who lived well into her 80’s.  She often told stories of her glory days owning a restaurant with her first husband during World War II.  She relished in describing the colorful characters who found their way to The Sunset on Highway 51.   What she never owned up to though, was running moonshine during the days of prohibition which was, I have been told,  the real reason so many colorful people frequented this establishment.   Later in life, she married a cop and moved to Louisiana.  Talk about a change of heart.  She made great gumbo and amazing spaghetti and meatballs.  Perfect by no means, but part of the communion and fellowship, nonetheless.  It is a small group, a shapshot of history and heritage, both good and bad, the fabric of my life.  Every year I reflect on this colorful communion of saints that in ways both great and small shaped my life.  And I say a prayer of thanks for them all.  

Who are the saints in your communion? Those you are glad are there and those you wish were not.   Who have been the people who have shaped your life in meaningful ways? Who have been those who have formed you by teaching you how not to live?  Take the time to remember them and offer a prayer of thanks for them all, even the ones who barely made it in.  They are a part of the communion as well.