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.
