Today I went to a memorial service. He was 3 years older than my father.
The air outside is filled with the death of millions of trees far away. I can't be outside and breathe well.
On Sunday I went to the grave of a child who died several years ago. There is still no headstone, just a fading laminated sign somehow still attached to its wooden stake.
I didn't get the job I was desperately hoping for. I didn't even get past the resume round.
But the hostile and toxic boss I was going to have to start reporting to later this month moved to a different part of our organization, so I won't have to report to her. She will still be in the group, still poisoning the other managers in the group against me, but I won't have to try to interact regularly with her 1:1. Some of my desperation to get that job is removed.
I randomly came across some notes from my last actively hostile toxic boss, and, wow. Things are so much better with my current passively toxic boss. He doesn't do anything, but he doesn't lie about it, and he doesn't get mad at me when he messes up. He also doesn't seem to get mad at himself and try to improve either, but . . .
I found out about the death of the man 3 years older than my father yesterday. I knew him through the church I went to for a while in graduate school. I was in the chancel choir with his wife. I saw him every year at the State Fair. Much of the church's budget comes from running the dining hall at the state fair. He was in charge of organizing the massive effort of volunteers and a few paid staff to keep the dining hall going. I would also sometimes see him at my local Whole Foods where he worked part time in retirement because he could. He was a pretty magical guy. He made the dining hall fun while also acknowledging how bonkers it could be. I didn't see him last year, but I figured it was because our shifts just didn't overlap (he had stepped down from leading it some years ago). I had no idea it was because he was dying.
His family had lots of notice. They had time to prepare during the year+ that he was in-home hospice. And his death was a month ago. But I just found out yesterday. The grief for me is raw and fresh.
I am always rubbish at memorial services. I just cry. If I lived in a culture where weeping at funerals was a respected profession, I would be a champion. But I don't, so I just feel awful. I can't bring comfort; only sadness and tears and being so choked up I can't even speak. I feel like I'm a burden to the bereaved family. I don't want them to spend their limited emotional energy comforting me.
But sometimes I feel like I NEED to go. To acknowledge and make space to just be sad that I will not see that person again this side of heaven. (And be happy remembering the good times.) To carve out that space and time.
"He wasn't a religious man, but he believed in community," his brother said. And the community that gathered to celebrate his life was the amen.
I am crying now. The tears are always close.
I wonder if I should approach the child's family about the headstone. I know they have the money because there was a fundraiser for it, and they said at the time that they had enough but just didn't have the wherewithal to finalize the headstone and installation. I fully understood that. But it has been years, and they are finally getting their feet under them again. If I bring it up, could I help get it done and take some of the burden off of them? Or will it just churn up the guilt cycle?
It's been a week. Death is always close. People are dying. People are being treated as less-made-in-the-image-of-God than others. People are treating others badly. The grief feels close. The tears are always close.
Love anyway. Love God. Love your neighbor. Love yourself. We're all walking each other home, as the song says. And love, as the Bible says, is strong as death.
Somehow.
