6 Years

 

    Through a series of circumstances, I found myself at a funeral a couple of weeks ago for a five-year-old boy who died in a very tragic accident.  I went alone and stood in a long, hot line among strangers waiting to get in.  Everyone was wearing bright colors as the family requested and young children got restless standing in the sun.  As I entered I was directed downstairs to the overflow room as the main worship space was completely full.  I sat in a folding chair in the corner and watched a slideshow of beautiful pictures from a brief life as the room filled.  Soon it was completely packed and we looked to the screen where my friend Iah, the rabbi of the synagogue, confidently but compassionately offered words of honesty, hope, assurance and comfort. 

            She led the service from behind a big picture of the child with his favorite stuffed animal and directly in front of his loving parents.  It didn’t take long for the tears to flow.  In the basement where I sat it was crowded, dark, stuffy and full of sadness.  Iah invited a soloist to come forward and as her beautiful voice began singing Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah the words cut deep.  Words about singing Hallelujah in dark and desperate situations.  To my surprise that crowded basement full of strangers and of all different beliefs started spontaneously singing along to the chorus.  In deep groans and emotionally strained tones the crowded room of strangers covered in tears sang together “Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah.”  I knew I would cry that day, but I didn’t know my tears of sadness would be mixed with tears of hope … a hope that is found in wildernesses, deserts, darkened streets and crowded funerals.

            One of the central messages of the funeral was “may his memory be a blessing.”  When I left that space I knew I had been blessed by that little life that I never actually knew before his breath left his body. 

            All of this got me thinking about Laura.  She would have understood the emotions I felt, she would not have been afraid to hear this tragic story and she would have thought of some meaningful way to offer kindness to the family.   I thought of the ways in which her memory blesses my life. 

            It also got me thinking about her crowded, hot funeral with tear-soaked faces.  When I stood in front of her husband and children and so many others who were wondering how this world could ever seem normal again without Laura’s beautiful presence.  When her then ten-year-old daughter stood in front of all of those people and sang out “I believe in the sun … I believe in the sun … even when … even when … it’s not shining.”  I had that same salty mix on my cheeks, sadness with hope … the kind of hope found in wildernesses, deserts, darkened streets and crowded funerals. 

            If the past year has taught us anything it’s that this world can be scary.  Really scary.  Illness, accidents, heart break … they all exist in this earthly space right next to us as we try to find the sun even when it isn’t shining.  Sometimes I get scared.  I get overwhelmed with “what ifs,” I get overprotective of those I love; I get paranoid about my own health and everything feels so completely out of control. 

            Today is the feast day of St. Peter and St. Paul and in a sermon reflecting on the lives of those saints, St. Augustine speaks of Peter’s threefold confession, undoing his threefold denial of Christ.  Augustine says, “This threefold confession of love is necessary to recover what you lost three times by your fear.  Untie by love the knot that you tied about yourself through fear” (Celebrating the Saints, Atwell and Webber, 2001).

            Those basement Hallelujahs and confidently sung words from Laura’s daughter felt like love untying the knots of fear.  Laura was not afraid of the heavy stuff.  She listened to so many stories of love, loss and battles with cancer and gave them each her compassion, empathy and care.  She opened her heart to so many people.  She was honest and genuine about the deep sadness of loss.  She was honest and genuine about how awful her illness was, and yet, she carried herself with such amazing faith and peace.  Her memory is a blessing.  Six years later.  Her love continues to untie knots tied through fear.