It was an unexpected reunion, tearful and hastily assembled. Many of us had not heard from each other for months, or even years. We finally regathered at a funeral home, of all places, to bid our final goodbyes to a suddenly departed friend. G. was killed several days before in a highway accident. She left behind a twelve-year-old daughter, two other grown kids, and many, many friends.
My wife and G. were very close, but her reaction to the phone call two nights before still surprised me. She was undone. I’ve never seen her weep as bitterly as she did then. I felt completely helpless; there was nothing I could say or do to make it any better. I could only hold her while she cried, and she cried all night.
Sometimes, in the emotional aftermath of such loss, people unwittingly gush, and paint saintly pictures of the one they miss. Perhaps some of those pictures are embellished…but not in this case.
At the memorial service, loved ones spoke in measured tones about a vibrant, intense woman who saw the profundity in simple things. They recalled how she loved the beach, and thought the sound of flowing water was soothing. They remembered that she found joy in dancing, and in spreading out a new pack of colored pencils across her desk to marvel at the colors.
G. was a good soul. Her livelihood itself was a labor of love. She was a counselor of drug addicts and abused children. In that job, she often witnessed the worst side of people, but it brought out the best in her.
She’d had more than her share of heartache in her forty-six years. And though many would consider her justified, she never became bitter or cynical.
She was a fiercely loyal mother, and a faithful friend.
G. was genuine. She did not know pretension or bravado, but was refreshingly at peace with who she was. She cared for people, but didn’t care what they thought of her. She freely allowed her roughest edges to show, and never judged another person for doing the same.
Her laugh was disarming, her words were uplifting, and her life was, in retrospect, inspiring.
G. was one of a kind.
The next day, at the funeral service, her family asked me if I’d be a pallbearer. Of course I said yes, but it was an honor that was bittersweet.
It was sobering, even a little bizarre, remembering the last time G. was at our house. At that time, I had no inkling I’d one day carry her casket. The specter of death seems very real now. Every time a loved one goes somewhere, I worry he or she may never come back.
As a pallbearer, it was also my job to stand with the other five, passing the flowers down an assembly line to a car. I looked around. Yellow rose petals blew in the wind, and a forgotten orchid which fell from the bunch. I realized that the dying days of a flower begin when its stem is cut, though it may still bloom for a while.
We, too, begin dying at birth, when our cords are cut. We spend our finite days oblivious or in denial, as a day of destiny advances against us like some cosmic stalker, and we are utterly powerless to stop it. We vow to live our lives to the fullest, or die trying. The exit begins as soon as we enter.
I don’t subscribe to the theory that when a person dies, another is born to fill the void. Life is not a revolving door. When G. was alive, the world enjoyed her unique contribution. Conversely, it is somehow less for her passing, and each of us mixed up humans who remain must plod on in the void, continuing to major on minors.
At the cemetery, a quiet procession dressed in black lovingly tossed those cut flowers onto a shiny, beige box. My wife once again wept hard as we sat in the car, waiting to follow the rest to a small celebratory gathering.
After we got home, I stood outside reflecting. I felt a strange hopefulness and optimism. The autumn trees looked more colorful, the sky looked bluer, and the air felt more refreshing than before. The people I love seemed more precious than ever. It was wonderful to be alive. I realized that we were still gleaning bits of blessing from G’s short life.
And, if we allow it, they will continue to come in the form of insight and inspiration. I don’t want to wait until tragedy occurs to see friends. I want to be careful with people’s hearts, and choose my words more thoughtfully.
And, someday at my own memorial service, I hope people will reflect on how I touched their lives in a loving, meaningful way. May God help me to do it.
Rest well, good soul…the world misses you.