Loud.

It wasn’t like a punch in the gut at all. When you get punched, you can curl up and gasp and clutch at your wound until the ache goes away. Here in the pew, I hunched and gasped and even clutched some, but I kept hurting. For the most part, I was alright when they brought him in. In his box. It was hard, but I was alive, and glad to be so.

But when she came in, and looked at him, and her boys stood on tip toe to look down at dad… on came the waterworks. There are some things that you are designed to be sad at, that if you didn’t, would make you not quite right. This wrongness resonated with me more deeply than most other things I’ve felt in my life. I hurt the worst in knowing that I couldn’t possibly hurt as much as she did.

When she and the boys arrived, I experienced a more profound silence than I had ever before in my life. She came in. And looked at him. And cried. And left. Silence echoed. Then his parents. Brother. Parents-in-law. Those who had worshiped with him, or heard him, or written to him, or been known by him; those who’s lives had changed because of the Father he spoke of unceasingly.

The Funeral was hard. But right.

“Now, live.” -Jeremy Erickson

Last night was his worship service. His “remembered, and loved, and unforgettable (and here’s why:)” service. People were crying, but laughing more, and praying most of all. And it was so appropriately loud. The voices of drums and pianos and people cried thanks for a long life lived in a short time.

A day begun in silence and tears, and capped with bright, joyous praise, and laughter.

I cannot wait.

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7 thoughts on “Loud.

  1. Young man, your words are a gift to me. I wish I would have taken the time get to know you at the funeral. Your dad told me you were a writer. He did not exaggerate your talents. Keep seeking, keep learning, keep writing about a creation from The Creator worthy of our praise. As you witnessed on Monday, it is a life worth living.

  2. I only “knew” him through your blog, and his story made me cry both happy and sad tears. What a powerfully, lovingly-lived life! When you describe the loudness of the crying and the laughing and the praying and the music and say, “I cannot wait,” I get that. Me, too.

  3. I agree with you about the wrongness of it, and I think you’re right that we are meant to respond in grief when we see something so wrong. But when you serve a God who promises to carry our sorrows, we can give the pain to him and trust him to grieve for us, to remember more faithfully than we could. I don’t say it to take away from the grief you feel, but to bring it full circle like David often did in the psalms of lament. We need to lament, but when our emotions are exhausted, he is still there.

  4. Pingback: A story to tell. « Muse

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