Weeping may endure for the night

 ....but joy comes in the morning. Ps 30:5

I have a mug decorated with this psalm and an image of sunrise over farm fields by William Schickel, my friend's grandfather, that my mom gave me. It's one of my favorites because of the words, the image, the giver, the artist, the weight of the mug. Usually, it brings me a little joy in the morning as I lift the mug to my lips for those first, most delicious, bitter, enlivening sips of coffee.  

But lately, mornings are hard. 

After asking for prayers last week, I packed suitcases for me and for the nine year old as we were flying to San Diego to help our oldest daughter move to her first apartment. She didn't really have much to move, but I knew I wouldn't have time to visit when school started, and this weekend was open, so we booked cheap tickets for a flight Saturday to Wednesday. My daughter was thrilled we were coming. 

Then Saturday morning, as we were heading to the airport, I got news that the funeral for my friends' son, Sean, was going to be Tuesday.  My husband urged me to go. But then my daughter was visibly disappointed when I mentioned it after she picked me up.  Here I was with my living daughter. Should I book another flight to go to the funeral of my friend's son and leave her?

I lay awake that night debating and trying to work out various scenarios in my mind. Originally, I was thinking I would try to go to the visitation Monday and then fly back to Austin from Chicago.  But I also didn't want to desert my own daughter. On the other hand, my other college friend in Chicago, the godmother of the boy who died, encouraged me to come if I could make it. Finally, I decided not to go to the visitation, but to fly out Monday evening for the funeral Tuesday, and return Tuesday night for one more dinner and breakfast with my daughter. This also meant I could leave the nine year old in San Diego, and I would have all day Sunday and a half day Monday with my daughter. We stopped in a thrift shop for a black dress and shoes, and then we did some move in work and visited with San Diego friends, had a good dinner and a good breakfast and good coffee, and then oldest daughter dropped me off again at the airport. 

It all fell in to place, even though my flight was delayed five hours, and I arrived in Chicago at 3:30 in the morning, I ubered to my other friend's house and lay in the dark a few hours, trying again to sleep, and then got ready to go with my other friend. (These were the two college friends I met up with for our 50th birthday celebrations. And that day was actually this friend's birthday. She won't ever forget it.)

What can I say? It was a blessing to be at that funeral with hundreds and hundreds of others - family and friends, the high school and middle school cross country teams, the swim team, the teachers and faculty, families from the community, members of the church. This family had been at the school for nearly 20 years between their 4 kids, who all were baptized and confirmed at the same church. My friend's son was an altar server, a good student, an avid athlete, a friendly, cheerful, loving little brother. His parents both spoke. I don't know how. There wasn't a dry eye among the hundreds there. To start his homily, the young priest read from Sean's eighth grade religion essay, for which he won an award. "We do not need to fear suffering and death because in the end Jesus's cross always wins." 

Surely he is a saint in Heaven now, enjoying the company of other young saints whose families miss them immensely, even though they know they should rejoice. 

Just being at that Mass was worth the trip.  I knew I might not get a chance to really talk to my friend. Only immediate family was invited to the cemetary, but there was a luncheon afterwards for family and friends. I happened to be walking out of the bathroom at the luncheon when my friend walked in the door. We hugged and cried and cried. All I could say is "I love you."  That was enough.

We did get to visit a little more near the end of the luncheon, the three of us from our college group, plus my friend's husband who also was a classmate. We were a little group of college friends who had bonded while running track and cross country thirty years ago. We went to each other's weddings. We were pregnant together when we lived in Chicago for a few years - we had a shower for ourselves when I was pregnant with my fourth, the daughter I had just left, and my friends were each pregnant with their oldest children.  Years later they came to visit Coronado. We met for coffee or happy hour a few times when I had layovers in Chicago. Then there was a meet up at a Notre Dame football game, when we plotted to get together for our birthdays. Over the years, we have seen each other only a handful of times, exchanged Christmas cards, kept up on social media, but those connections made in college are strong. I am so, so grateful.

And so we wept again, talking about our babies. And I, who hardly ever sheds tears, cried again when I told my daughter and my mother and my husband about this beautiful, tragic funeral.  I don't know when joy will come again for my friend. Mornings are probably still full of weeping, as she wakes up, if she even sleeps, knowing her little boy won't be waking up. Her husband asked people to talk about Sean, to remember him, saying:  "Don't be afraid that saying his name will make someone sad. We're already sad. Instead it will bring us joy to know that others remember his spirit and that his memory is being kept alive."

May healing come, and maybe one day, joy.

Here is an article from their local paper: https://www.thehinsdalean.com/story/2023/07/27/news/funeral-mass-honors-life-of-14-year-old/6569.html

After the rain

 The morning of our friends' son's funeral was gray and rainy, the kind of perpetual, misty rain that lasts all day. The cool, damp air required rain jackets that muted the white and bright clothing that we were asked to wear. Because the funeral was for a small child who died in innocence, the Mass was a White Mass, a time for rejoicing, celebrating a new saint. I wore a light colored dress with a white cardigan; my husband wore his tan suit. Our daughters wore their school uniforms - they came from and returned to school after the Mass. My friend who had lost her little boy wore a long white dress and her girls wore their First Communion dresses; her other two boys wore white pants and shirts and little vests of the kind made for First Communions or late baptisms. 

And yet, despite the celebratory dress, it didn't really feel like a moment for celebrating. 

After the Mass we all drove sedately to the cemetery for one last goodbye. The cemetery was tucked out of the way on a tree lined plot coated with bluebonnets. Other graves were planted with roses already blooming and other budding plants, as well as assorted statuary and totems of loved ones. It seemed like a relatively new cemetery; more than one gravesite was freshly covered.  Both my husband and I were surprised they did not lower the tiny pine casket into the grave while everyone was present. All the mourners followed the parents in placing a hand or a flower on the casket and pausing for a brief prayer for the grieving family, asking for the new saint's intercession.

Then we all gathered for a reception at an historic home that now usually hosts wedding receptions. All eight of my friend's siblings and their families were in town, along with her husband's brothers and of course the grandparents, and lots of friends from the kids' school. The mood lifted a bit as a slide show played, and everyone ate. Cousins and classmates ran around. Mutual friends reconnected or met for the first time. The parents thanked everyone for coming.

After the Mass, the graveside service, and the reception, the family was going to go back home to sit with family, to change clothes, to clean up. Two days later the other kids went back to school. Time to return to the routine. Life continues. 

This is the prettiest time of year in Texas. The bluebonnets are coating the hills all along the highways, with splashes of prairie-fire (also known as Indian paintbrush) and pale pink evening primroses and occasionally sunshiny coreopsis contrasting with the blues. The redbuds just finished their purple blush, and now the fresh yellow green of new leaves are brightening the trees.  

The wildflowers announce renewal and new life and joys of beginning again, even when life is heavy. Next year the bluebonnets will return. Perhaps in remembrance we'll go back to the cemetery to say a prayer, or send bluebonnets to the family.  Today's gospel about Lazarus reminds us that Jesus wept because he loved his friends. Even if we believe in the resurrection, we, too, weep because we love our friends. And yet life goes on. I just finished reading Auden's "Musee des Beaux Arts" with my students - Icarus is drowning in a corner of the painting; war is waging as Auden stands in the museum, but the farmer keeps planting, travelers continue on their way, we go back to the work of surviving. 

After the funeral

May already! Time for catching up:

First a funeral.

Each rose represents a member of the family.
The different colors are for different generations.
There were 54 roses altogether. And my grandmother
was an only child. . . 

My trip back to the states for my grandmother’s funeral was very brief.  It took me as many days to get back on schedule as the number of days I was gone.  My husband convinced me that I should take one child with me as a representative of the others at the funeral.  I feared cries of injustice from the five left behind, but they all seemed to accept that one getting to go was better than none – maybe they realized that the house would be one-sixth less noisy.  And we also explained that others were going to get opportunities for traveling at other times. So my nine year old daughter was my travel companion, and a very good one she was. We never really had a heart to heart conversation, but we enjoyed the serendipity of airplane meals, watching travelers in line for security checks, and resting on each other’s shoulders during brief naps on the flight. And my daughter carried six roses up to the vase in the picture above, while I carried two, to help fill in the overflowing, somewhat chaotically enmeshed, arrangement of flowers that represented my grandmother's fondest accomplishment: being matriarch of a close, loving, although sometimes quibbly, but always faithful family.  She presided happily over birthday parties, Christmas celebrations, graduations, marriages, and the other ceremonies and daily rituals that mark the rearing of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

I debated returning for this funeral because I had just made the visit with my grandmother in January. At the time, I had decided I would rather spend time with her living than dead.  And we had a wonderful visit.  Knowing that it might be my last, I made an effort to be present, to listen, to ask questions.

But despite the financial sacrifice for the airline tickets, as well as the sacrifice of sleep and health, I’m glad I made the trip again, not because I felt the need to say goodbye, but because there was more of her to get to know. Listening to what my cousins and aunts and uncles had to say, browsing through all the old photos, hearing the pastor talk about my grandmother’s ministries in her church, all made me realize there were questions I didn’t ask, stories I didn’t hear during the last visit, that would help complete the picture of the person my grandmother was. As my mom has mentioned while cleaning up my grandmother’s house, here are all the pieces of a life, one that was well-lived, but perhaps underappreciated, as all lives might be. Everyone's memory of the same person reveals some additional facet of her personality. How can we ever really know another fully…

In one of her journals unearthed in a visit to the home emptied of her physical presence, but full of her spirit, she had written this piece of advice: "Look for everyday blessings that sometimes seem very mundane. A flower! A butterfly! A phone call! A special book! A song! A beautiful day! In all things be thankful."

One of the photo collages my sister-in-law assembled.

Four generations a generation ago.

I really admire the custom here on Guam have holding several nights of rosaries, sometimes entire novenas, after loved ones pass away.  Barbecues are held at different family member’s homes, or all at one central place, so everyone has a chance to come and pray and talk and share stories.  And often there are advertisements in the paper for one year anniversary parties after a death.  Maybe these are just excuses for the living to gather for good eats, but why not use any opportunity to revisit good memories and strengthen family ties? I'm glad I grabbed the chance to spend time with the siblings and cousins. Worth every penny and lost minute of sleep.

On the way home we had a short layover in Tokyo. The airport was clean, modern, and quiet. The lighting was cool, the waiting area decorated with geometic, but comfortable chairs, and the toilets all offered bidets, which my daughter mistook for the flusher.  One of the little stores had an origami exhibit that we meandered through. A fine introduction to Japanese culture.

Little Red Riding Hood

A soul ascending? The little matchgirl?

Other benefits of travel: ample time for reading (some books which I finished on the plane I may review soon), a brief experience of spring, a visit with our old dog, a view of the Alaskan skyline, time to laugh with cousins.

More updates soon. I give my class their final tomorrow night, and then I'll have more time for gathering thoughts.  

Gathering eggs just after sunrise.

Bosco has lost weight on the farm.

An out of focus mayapple, one of my favorites.

A bouquet of dogwood, phlox, and asters gathered
by the granddaughters.

Meanwhile, back at home, soccer season ended with a win.

From the plane window over Alaska. Seredipitously,
the movie on the flight was Big Miracle about the rescue
of whales in Barrow, Alaska.