In June of 2022, the Episcopal Diocese of Fort Worth held a special convention to determine if we would reunite with the Diocese of Texas. We shared a beautiful worship service with all the parishes and missions of our diocese, and then there was the business meeting. After it, we filed into the fellowship hall of Trinity Fort Worth for a celebratory luncheon.

Just days before that event, the diocese issued a press release telling the whole world that St Christopher’s vestry called me to be your next priest. As I was making my way through the lunch line, Jeanneane Keene—the senior warden—asked if I would sit at the St. Christopher’s table and meet more of you.

Of course, I did just that. And what followed was a lot like speed dating. There were questions coming at me from every direction. Folks were learning about me and I was desperately trying to put names and faces together. When the buzz slowed down, I turned to my right where Ken Monroe was sitting and listening.

He faced me with those intense blue eyes and asked, “What do I call you?” I said, “You can call me Paula…what’s your name?” We talked for a while getting to know one another a bit, and then Ken said, “I’d like you to come to my home and meet my wife.” His eyes filled with tears as he told me that he and Ann would soon celebrate their 70^th wedding anniversary. 

In my first week at St. Chris, he came to the office with a book-- and a CD-- of the history of St. Christopher’s Episcopal Church. It was important to Ken that I would know our story, our calling, our mission. It was important to me that I would know him.

As I thought about this sermon, I wondered the same question Thomas asked in the Gospel. How can we know the way? When someone who has been a constant presence in our life is suddenly gone, how do we know the way forward?

In the Gospel, Jesus knows he will die…he shared the news with his disciples, the people he loves, and they’re freaking out. He had been the cornerstone of their lives. He brought them into ministry, taught them, and empowered them to go into the world. Because, like a parent, he knew from the beginning that he would leave them one day.

Jesus responds to the disciples’ worry by sharing with them the very reason he is among them: physical death is not the end of his story. It is the beginning of new chapter…for him and for Ken and for us.

Jesus’ words—“I go to prepare a place for you…so that where I am you may be also”-- struck a chord with me as I was thinking about Ken’s way of being in this world.

In my first week at St. Christopher’s, he brought the history of the congregation to me in both print and digital formats.  

A few weeks ago, Tara and I were going through old office files.  We opened a file drawer that was overflowing with pieces of paper. Over the past 65 years, we had retained the warranties and repair receipts for every piece equipment ever installed at our old building. It was a lot of stuff. In the middle of it, we found a special notebook. 

As I leafed through the book, I realized it was handwritten by Ken Monroe…. pages and pages of notes. He logged notes on all the equipment in the building, the dates of routine maintenance and the details of crisis maintenance. If we owned it, Ken logged it. If we fixed it, replaced it, upgraded it, Ken logged it. 

I’m told that when freezing weather visited Fort Worth, Ken went to the church building to be sure the equipment was weather protected and the faucets were opened and trickling water. 

When he retired from General Dynamics, his team asked for Ken’s little black notebook. Throughout his military service and then 46 years at General Dynamics, Ken had kept a notebook with the names and numbers of people who had very specific knowledge to solve very specific problems. He’d pulled out that little black notebook so many times, it was coveted by the younger engineers.

Ken intentionally built a library of knowledge, wisdom, and relationships for those of us who come after him. He invested much of his life in the art of empowering others. 

In the Fall of 2022, I finally made it to the Monroe home. As I settled into the living room with Ann and Ken, the woodstove was fired up and the room was warm. I had spent time that day with Marshall Amis. Marshall had told me the story of meeting Bet for the first time. I remarked that she must have been a lovely person.  Ken rose from his recliner and began pulling framed photos off the wall, Ann found a book of photos to share. 

There were photos of Bet and Ann on the dock at the lake house, and others with their hair wrapped in scarves as they boated across the lake, and, of course, Marshall and Ken enjoying time on the boat. There’s a photograph of a church where the family worshiped when they were at the lake on Sundays.

The lake house was a place of Sabbath for Ken. A lot of family memories and good times were born there. 

On the afternoon before Ken died, I visited him in the hospital. I knew he had been through a lot that week, but I did not know his bags were packed and ready for the last trip. I walked to his bedside to take his hands in mine and pray with him. But instead, Ken took my hands into his. 

So, when the family chose “He’s got the whole world in his hands” as a hymn for today, I remembered Ken closing his hands around mine. One last time, being the one offering strength and presence. 

Jesus wanted to comfort his disciples: “Do not let your hearts be troubled…I am the way and the truth and the life.”  

Every notebook Ken filled was an act of faith—a breadcrumb trail to help others find their way.

Every vegetable pulled from his garden and dropped at someone’s doorstep was an act of generosity—a reflection of the abundant life he lived.

Every time his eyes filled with tears talking about Ann, or his children, or grandchildren, he showed us vulnerability and love.

Every time he prepared the church for freezing temperatures, installed a basketball hoop for a 10-year-old boy, or painstakingly cleaned the Christus Rex, we saw a servant heart. 

Every time he welcomed us into his home, into his life, we felt the radical welcome of Love.

The Book of Ken etched in our hearts – his way of living and loving and caring for others—that book is grounded in Hope and it points toward the Risen Christ: the way, the truth, and the life.

Alleluia. Alleluia. Alleluia.