I’m an optimistic person and would
classify myself as happy—at least most of the time. Yet some days you get an early
morning phone call that seems to just make the earth tilt a little different. I
got one of those phone calls Friday morning.
I turn my phone’s sound off at night
because the whistling, dinging, and notifications interfere with my sleep. Once
I discovered the alarm still rang with the sound off, I just automatically turn
it off at night. So when I heard the phone buzz, I picked it up trying to
figure out why my alarm was silent. It wasn’t the alarm malfunctioning, it was
a phone call from my son with bad news.
My forty-seven year old niece
Krystal had passed away in the early morning hours. Shocking, unexpected news.
Devastating news. The kind of news that can suck the air from your lungs. A
cherished family member gone. Just gone. Forever from Earth.
My sorrow at losing a beloved niece
cannot even compare to the crushing blow this was for her parents, husband,
children, siblings, grandchildren, and those privileged to be in her inner
circle. It was a big circle because Krystal had a loving heart and a gentle
nature.
Today was her funeral. Three days
before Christmas, and what? The hap- happiest time of the year? No. Hundreds of
people gathered together to remember Krystal, honor Krystal, and to lay her to
rest.
As the photos on the PowerPoint transitioned, we saw Krystal as a little girl, a teen-ager with big hair, in a beautiful white dress on her wedding day, cuddling her baby, with her family, turn around, turn around. Krystal with her little smile, sparkling eyes, and quiet sense of humor. I had watched her grow up in real time and the photos were fast-forwarding through the years.
When most people can’t find time to
join one church, Krystal belonged to two. One a traditional Lutheran Church and
the other a more modern non-denominational church. Both pastors, one
traditional, and the other quite unconventional both spoke of the woman they
had grown to depend on and cherish.
After words of comfort and prayers,
we queued up with a long line of cars to go to the cemetery for the interment. After
the long drive, we huddled beneath umbrellas as the rain began in earnest,
shoes sinking into the soft earth. We shared umbrellas, coats, hugs, and sorrow
as the rain beat down and we prayed the Lord’s Prayer.
We went inside the church to share a
meal and comfort each other. To share the sorrow. As I talked to Mike, he said,
“You know what it’s like, Aunt Linda.” I do know what it’s like to lose a
beloved spouse. It’s like losing part of yourself. An unfillable void. “There
are no words,” he said. I couldn’t agree more.
I know the pain of losing a parent,
and the crushing blow of losing a brother. I do not, thank God, know what it is
like to lose a child. We all want our children to outlive us. I can’t even
imagine the heartache a parent feels at a time like this.
There’s no amount of optimism that
can take away the sadness. Even a belief that those who have gone before us are
rejoicing in Krystal’s rebirth, she’s not here with us. We sure would have
liked to have kept her a whole lot longer.
Some days are just sad, and the rain
keeps falling. There are no words.
copyright © 2014 by L.S. Fisher
No comments:
Post a Comment