I went to the wrong funeral last week. Right church, wrong day. It wasn’t a funeral for someone I knew personally, but rather the family member of a friend I know and love.
Midday and in the middle of Georgetown, I was surprised and relieved to find a parking spot less than a block from the church. I didn’t want to be late and it was threatening rain. I had forgotten my umbrella, so I ran to the church and blew through the back door expecting to be early, but walked right into the funeral-in-progress. A blond woman in a silk dress was singing beautifully from the pulpit and when I burst through the back of the church she made eye contact even before the gust of wind that followed me in had a chance to slam the door shut. Several people on the back pews also turned to look and I nodded hello. And I was still not sure why I didn’t feel “early.”
Like most things in my life, it took me a while to realize what was going on. I picked up a bulletin and took it to an empty seat in the last pew, one of the few seats available. I noticed the man who had died didn’t have the same last name as my friend. His picture on the bulletin, was also suspect. He was much younger than I had expected…. And then, before I had even had time to settle in, communion began. Not being Catholic, I did not partake (I learned that at the last Catholic funeral I attended) and waited patiently as the Sacraments were being distributed, still vaguely wondering why they would do that at the beginning of the service?
And then, abruptly, the service ended and people were cueing out the same doors through which I just entered. I found myself thinking, “Wow, shortest funeral EVER.” But just as that thought clanged against any semblance of sense, I asked the Father whether this was my friend’s father-in-law’s funeral. He looked at me kindly and said, “I am so sorry ma’am, that service was the day before yesterday.”
I was crestfallen. I had really wanted to be there. I lost a brother and remember so clearly the day of his funeral. Somehow it mattered to me that every seat was taken – – that there would be people there through whom he would somehow live on in memory – – that he was known and loved, as I knew him and loved him. I wanted to be a body in that church for Sue. Another seat taken.
As it turned out, I wasn’t. But God redeemed the time. I called my friend to apologize for missing the service, and in the same breath she answered the phone, she graciously invited me to come and sit with her and talk. I did. And it was beautiful. Thank you God and thank you Sue for that invitation.
Loss is a funny thing. When I lost my brother I had folks coming out of the woodwork to let me know they had experienced the same thing. There was transparency and communion in the shared and painful experience of losing someone “before their time.” I think God does that with so much of life. The hardest places are never without their uses, the darkest places never without light to navigate Home. And when I get to draw on those experiences to walk through those places with others, like others showed up for me, it somehow tends to my own wounds at the same time it connects me to others in a Divine and healing way I cannot begin to explain. It isn’t something I do. It is something God does through two people who have experienced pain, and in the sharing of it, He assuages both of our wounds. And if I simply show up, I know I don’t have the power to make anything better, but my presence matters, showing up matters. Love matters and sometimes love just means walking through the door. And when we are gathered there in shared experience on different points in the curve, it is God who reaches in and makes it better.
God’s presence in the midst of loss is a powerful thing – – a transformative thing, on so many levels. Experiencing the power and grace of God as he lead me out of impenetrable darkness had many unexpected “side effects.” For one, it broke in me the place that is quick to judge anyone else who is experiencing something I have never gone through before. I used to think I knew what it was like to experience things I had not yet endured. I now know things like motherhood, marriage, loss, and failure feel very different from the inside than they look from the outside. Empathy is only, truly possible if you have been there. It has been an act of God’s grace in my own life that I no longer feel qualified to judge those who are in the midst of experiences I have yet to personally experience.
I love that I suffered colossal failure as a young woman. Love it. It keeps me keenly aware of what God can do with a life no matter what it looks like in the midst of failure. It has given me an open ended definition of divine transformation. I never look at someone as a lost cause. Ever.
I love that before I had children I had this whole list of things “I would never do” as a mother. The least of which was licking my fingers and cleaning off my children’s faces. Without exception I have transgressed on every count…and they have somehow survived me and still seem to be thriving. I never look askance at a mother doing the best she can with what she’s got, where she is…, whether her kids are all in matching sailor suits or barefoot, past 10 p.m. at the Walmart. In fact, looking back, I wish I had done a little more of the barefoot and a little less of the matchy-matchy.
I love that I have struggled with addiction, and now appreciate that I know what it is like to put substance before those I love, before principles I hold dear and before any semblance of good sense and decency. I can now watch others do the same and know that it’s not them, it’s their addiction. I could never have done that before my own struggles as a young woman with alcohol. Addiction is a powerful thing and very real. And some of the finest people I know are people built with that certain bent for excess that makes them the most extraordinary and generous people I have ever met, once free of the bondage of addiction.
I appreciate that I know what it is like to lose those closest to me – – and that I know the difference between dealing with death of the regular variety, and death by sudden, or tragic circumstances.
I appreciate that I now know the power of God to keep me afloat during true darkness and despair — that He never gives me more than I can handle – – even if it seems that He sometimes wildly overestimates my tolerance for pain.
I love that there is so much I just don’t get and never will. And that God doesn’t tell me I have to understand it all or experience it all – – but only that I must learn to love others through it all. Knowing that I am so ignorant of so much on the human spectrum of emotion and experience is truly humbling and it gives me a chance to look at myself on a two sided fulcrum of humanity. Those like me, and God. I just don’t get it. I just don’t. That’s why God gave me one job – – not to judge or make it right or figure it out – – but just to show up and love. And if loving happens to rectify, make it better, or clarify – – all the better but my job, really, it’s just to love. I love you Sue. I am sorry for your loss. I understand. I really do.
So even though it was the wrong funeral, it gave me this strange sense that we are all connected by this amazing Divine design – – connected to one another – – connected by experience – connected to Him for strength we will never be able to muster on our own. It’s not so big and mysterious, this world. It’s a collection of imperfect and broken people, who God is calling so gently both to love and be loved (by Him and one another) until “He will wipe every tear from our eyes and there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away…” Revelation 21:4 `.
I woke up early this morning. Not regular early, errantly early. 4 a.m. I tried and tried to get back to sleep but at 4:38 I got out of bed and headed for the shower. With Tim still out of town, I would at least be all over the morning. So I showered and in a quiet house, started the business of getting ready for the day. A couple of times I checked in on sleeping girls. There is something so lovely about those hours, and about the quiet and the calm that is over everything. I didn’t miss the impact of that, as I puttered around, for once, ahead of the curve. And then after some quiet time, a couple loads of laundry, a recap of the Australian Open and a shower, I was about to walk in to wake up the girls when I glanced down at my phone. The only new email was an announcement from school: there was a two-hour delay for opening. And all of a sudden what had at first felt like a morning ahead-of-the-curve was now looking more and more like a reckless waste of sleep.