Phone of the Wind

Last autumn, attending to my own grief over the deaths of my mother and sister, I traveled to a grief retreat in Washington state. At the retreat center, out among the thick Pacific NW trees, there was a "Phone of the Wind." I'd never heard of that, and I must confess, I kind of rolled my eyes. It bore a plaque saying that the phone was for people to "call" their deceased love ones and share with them whatever they wanted to say.

And yet, the day came during the retreat, when I ventured out to the phone myself, and put words to so much of what I was feeling - sharing things they'd missed, letting them know how I missed them. I found out later that the others in the retreat had also used it, and found it very helpful.

That phone stayed in the back of my mind, and a couple of months ago, I reached out to the Building and Grounds team - would it be possible to do this here? They gave me an enthusiastic yes. Sam Crawford obtained an old rotary wall phone from her grandfather, Becky and Ray McPherson build a cabinet, ordered a sign, mounted it, cleared the space and made it inviting. (We'll also be adding in a path to make it accessible for those using wheelchairs or scooters.) You can go to it anytime - wind your way down the chalice pathway to the outdoor stage area - it's to the left of that, in a small clearing for privacy.

This past Sunday, after the Worship service, we gathered at the phone to formally dedicate it. (Words are below). What I discovered, in preparing for the dedication, is that this a worldwide movement. If you go to https://www.mywindphone.com/, you'll find maps of all the known locations. Ours has been submitted to be added.

Dedication of the Wind Phone, Live Oak Unitarian Universalist Church

We gather today to dedicate this wind phone:
a simple place for words that have nowhere else to go.

Grief is full of unfinished sentences.

Things we meant to say.
Questions we still want to ask.
Stories we wish we could tell one more time.
“I love you.”
“I miss you.”
“I’m angry.”
“I forgive you.”
“I hope you knew.”
“You would have laughed at this.”

When someone we love dies, the relationship does not simply disappear. It changes.

We may no longer hear their voice answer ours, but they remain part of the story of who we are. Their presence may live in our memories, our habits, our values, our laughter, our wounds, and our love.

Different people understand death in different ways. Some of us believe those we love continue in a life beyond this one. Some imagine their spirits returning to the universe or becoming part of something larger than ourselves. Some believe that what remains is the love they gave, the lives they touched, and the memories carried by those who knew them.

This wind phone does not ask us to agree about what happens after death.

It simply gives us a place to speak.

Here, you may pick up the receiver and say what is on your heart.

There is no number to dial.
There is no need to find the right words.
There is no expectation that anyone will answer.

You may talk.
You may cry.
You may laugh.
You may sit in silence.

You may speak to a parent, a partner, a child, a sibling, a friend, a teacher, or anyone whose absence remains present in your life.

You may speak to someone who died yesterday or someone who died decades ago.

And perhaps the wind will carry those words away.

Or perhaps speaking them aloud will help carry something within us.

We dedicate this wind phone as a place of tenderness.

May it remind us that grief is not something we finish.

May it remind us that love does not become meaningless because someone has died.

May it offer companionship to those carrying sorrow.

May those who come here feel permission to remember without embarrassment, to mourn without hurry, and to speak without explanation.

And may we, as a community, continue to make room for grief—not as a problem to solve, but as one of the ways human beings bear witness to love.

[Optional: invite those gathered to place a hand on the phone, its enclosure, or one another.]

Let us dedicate this place together.
For the words we never had the chance to say,
We make room.
For the stories we still long to tell,
We make room.
For anger, regret, gratitude, laughter, and tears,
We make room.
For memories that comfort us and memories that ache,
We make room.
For all the ways we carry those who are no longer physically beside us,
We make room.
And for love—which so often outlives the ability to say goodbye—
We make room.

May this phone stand here as an invitation:
Call.
Speak.
Remember.

Listen to the wind
And know that you do not carry your grief alone.
May it be so.