epiphany

Memory

We had Gary's memorial service Thursday. I would have been at work for only an hour, so I took the whole day off. After a lazy morning, I went to pick up my accompanist and headed to the funeral.

Traffic was slow. What should have taken five or ten minutes took twenty. My friend just moved into a new townhouse. I spent about 10 minutes knocking on somebody else's door and ringing their doorbell before I realized I was at the wrong building. I had tried calling, but Jeremy's been having problems with phone service in his place. Eventually, I popped one unit over, and he answered immediately, wondering what had taken me so long.

We made it to the church shortly after 12:30 and ran through our songs in the choir room a couple times while Gary's parents listened. I had understood that Gary was being cremated and was very surprised to hear that his viewing was in the side chapel. I went in five minutes before the service started, which I immediately realized was a mistake. That brought up WAY too many emotions.

I spent a good bit of the service just praying that I would be able to sing my two songs, "It Is Well with My Soul" and my arrangement of "Be Still, My Soul," without breaking down. Immediately after sitting down from the second one, I started crying. Fortunately I had stolen some kleenex from the bathroom just before the service.

Still, it was a good service. I suppose all funerals have their awkward moments, something that doesn't quite seem to fit the person you knew. But then again, I really haven't known Gary all that long--less than a year. I knew him mostly in his illness. It would have been like someone getting to know Dad at the end of his life. The last time I saw Dad, he was a skeleton with paper skin and eyes as blue and deep as the sky. Gary didn't walk quite as far into the Holocaust as Dad did. He was thin, but he still had some meat on him. Still, the shadows of the valley creep over even the strongest. In the casket, we all look alike.

I went back into the viewing room after the service and had another brief chat and cry. I held Gary's hand, told him to hang on until I got there, and to say hi to Dad for me.

The world keeps moving. Cars keep running past. Work and hunger and sleep rise for their varied times. Life continues. Some know the loss of a life. Others feel different loss. Some few have not yet met the shadows. I do not call them lucky, for their luck cannot last forever. But I do wish them well, happiness, and strength to see light once the darkness begins its slow trek across their eyes.

I wrote an e-mail to my mom two days after Gary died, trying to summarize my thoughts and sort out what had happened to me. It normally takes me months or years to see patterns in my life, to see the lessons written in my own tale. This time seems different, almost like the line that makes the drawing sensible or that final note that allows you to start writing a different song.

Here's most, if not all, of that note:

***
We had a really good impromptu memorial service at Gary's on Tuesday night [July 18, 2006]. Nearly 40 guys showed up. I had a good day during the day [Wednesday]. I woke up utterly thankful for having known him. But [Wednesday] evening was rough. I cried a few times. Didn't quite cry myself to sleep but kept telling Jesus how much it hurts to love and how very, very sad I was. But I don't want to just shut down the hurting. I want to feel this whole thing thoroughly--the good and the bad.

I don't know if I ever mentioned it to you, but before Great Uncle Earnest died, I wanted to move to New Brunswick and help care for him and Grandpie. That
never happened, but now I've had a chance to help out a different older man. I think that's cool. Kind of like how I thought I should be a missionary, realized
it wasn't right for me, and later ended up in China for a year.

The big thing I wonder is whether or not Gary and Dad have met yet and if they're talking about me. That brings the hugest mix of emotions: excitement and aching emptiness all at the same time. I think they would be good friends.

"Lay up treasures in Heaven." I've spend so much time helping and thinking about Gary these last few months that I feel a bit lost. It's like I've had a really
good investment, and the deal just completed. Now I need to find a different place (person) to invest.

Yesterday morning during thankful mode, I realized how much strength Dad and Gary have left me through their passing. When Dad died, there were responsibilities I didn't want to take but knew I had to, things I didn't think I was strong enough to do, though I now needed to do them. With Gary, I began to assume that adult role I feared: helping with meds, taking care of little things around the house, comforting him in his bad hours. I used to feel like a lost 5 year old boy. I just wanted to find my mom and dad and curl up on their laps when I was sad or scared. When I was worn out and depressed, I would tell people I'm already 50 or 60 years old inside. I don't feel much of either of that now. While I don't quite feel like I'm 30, I do feel much more of a young man than a little boy. In my sadness, I feel no older than I actually am.

Posted by jonhanneman at July 29, 2006 3:45 PM | TrackBack