All Saints Day
“Death will not have the final word, so we need not fear to speak of it.”
Practice
Gather for a Meal. Set an empty seat with a framed photo and flowers. Use their dishware or prepare their favorite foods.
Tell Their Story. Share your favorite memories and celebrate how they shaped you.
Create a liturgy. Light a candle, read their obituary, sing hymns, or take communion. Every Moment Holy is a helpful resource.
Involve Children. Have kids participate. Invite them to draw on stones as they listen. Say, “These are our stones of remembrance to remind us how to live bravely and love well.”
On the anniversary of my grandfather’s death, I called my Mom to ask how she was. She said, “People don’t really mention my parents to me anymore. Maybe they are afraid it would make me sad, but I’m already thinking about them all the time.” I began to reflect on the loneliness of grief and how layered the pain can feel when we have no means of sharing it. Shortly after, I came across the ancient practice of observing All Saints Day—a day to honor all holy people who lived faithful lives in Christ. Not martyrs, but those saintly, hidden lives known only to God.
On November 1st, my mom, sisters, nieces, and nephews gathered in a dimly lit dining room. We set the table with an empty seat and a vase of flowers to honor our lost loved ones. We framed a photo of my grandparents sitting side by side, heads thrown back in laughter, enjoying a joke now lost in time. Together we sang, “Where is death’s sting, where, grave, thy victory? I triumph still, if thou abide with me.” We took communion, receiving the embodied remembrance that suffering and death do not have the final word, but instead testify to God’s commitment to goodness, restoration, and resurrection for the whole of creation.
I spoke the liturgy: “In your wisdom and mercy, O Lord, you have decreed that it is not good for us to grieve alone. We who are called by your name are to suffer and rejoice, together.” My nephew read the words from Revelation: “He will wipe every tear from their eyes.” I marveled at how hopeful these words sounded in the trusting voice of a child.
For the first time, my sister told her oldest son about my grandfather’s bravery—how he got his teeth knocked out while smuggling rice to Burmese refugees in Thailand. We drank from my grandmother’s teacups as we told my niece about her elaborate tea parties, and how she would always remind us over banana pudding and Earl Grey: “People will rise or fall to the expectations you hold them to, so think and speak highly of others.” We ate my grandfather’s favorite pistachio ice cream as we recounted his corniest jokes, and my littlest nephew listened with wide eyes, throwing his head back in laughter again and again.
With each shared memory, we lit a candle, filling the darkened room with small, radiant lights. I caught my mom’s shining eyes through the fire’s glow. How clear and bright it seemed in that sacred moment: the quiet ways of a glorious life. In the practice of remembering together, we learn that grief need not be carried alone, and that even in death, love still kindles light.
Jaimie Morgan serves as the Pastor to Kids at Bloom Church in Denver. She lives with her husband Will and their four young sons in Littleton.
