I attended a memorial service for a young person a couple of days ago.
He was just starting adulthood…so the grief was palpable. Lou and I were only two minutes late getting to the church for the service, but it was already standing-room-only when we arrived. People were wedged together like pickles in a jar in the tiny vestibule, and the bitterness and sadness felt as astringent in my eyes as if a pickle jar wasn’t just a metaphor. I was overwhelmed by the turn-out, and when I looked around at the people standing shoulder-to-shoulder with me, it was clear that this young person was deeply loved.
There were dozens of other “young people” in the vestibule with me, and watching them comfort one another as the priest gave the homily was profoundly sad but…strangely beautiful, too. Hugs and tears were freely expressed because the loss and the grief were so poignant and real. But it must’ve also been bewildering to be experiencing this kind of loss at their age.
Eventually, the vestibule became so cramped that a big cluster of the twenty-something friends slipped out to the front steps of the church. When the door would open for someone new to step inside, I could see these friends somberly gathered on the steps, crying and hanging their heads. It physically hurt my heart to see their sadness, and it mixed with my own as I tried to wrap my mind around the loss of one of my very good friend’s only son.
I kept dipping my head to pray whenever I couldn’t take the well of emotions building in me, and I wish I could say that I found a way to process this bitter loss. So eventually, I shifted my thoughts and prayers away from what was wrong about losing someone so important and so young, and tried to find something to help me fill the vacancy I felt while standing in this huge gathering of mourners. As I watched a tall young man — wearing an ill-fitting suit I bet he hardly ever has the occasion to wear — reach over and put his arms around one of his grieving friends, I found something to fix on:
Love.
I was moved by how powerful love can be in a moment like this, and so I turned my prayers to lift beyond my own understanding. I surrendered all of my limited ideas and beliefs that get tainted by a world that only operates in one or maybe two dimensions, and gave my soul permission to believe in things I can’t even fathom. And in that space, the one thing I know for certain transcends all my understanding is love.
When someone passes, that loss can be so deep, and the idea that I can’t wrap my arms around him or her any longer — or do something to help to make his or her life a little easier — can grind the pain of my grief deeper into my being sometimes. Then all of the things “I can’t do” anymore start to crowd my mind too much, and the loss takes over and makes me feel hallow.
But when I watched two grieving friends step into a space of love, I realized that kind of love ascends to a place I can’t go — because that kind of love has no ceiling, no limit, no restrictions. That love will find the person I’m grieving over, and for me, that was the only thing that could help me find a little peace that day.
I’m still so sad today. And I think I’m going to be sad for awhile. When I think of my friend and the rest of her family, my stomach literally buckles with sadness. It’s going to take a long time for the grief to change and take up space inside of those left behind in a different way.
