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.