a funeral, a wake, a dying, and some hope

Last week, we attended the funeral of Chris Cirker, who was 57. He died two weeks ago, suddenly, leaving his wife Rachael and his daughter Leah. We had known the family for several years, thanks to Daniel, and had celebrated many holidays and some weekends away with them. In fact, the weekend after last year's Thanksgiving, about a dozen of us gathered at Chris and Rachael's house to remember all the wonderful Thanksgivings we'd had with Daniel.

I wonder if I would have felt quite so compelled to go to the funeral had Daniel still been with us. Because he is now gone, though, I somehow felt that his spirit pushed me to go (and I was glad that Robert chose to go too).

The funeral was lovely and devastating. Chris had been part of a jazz band which played without him for the first time. During part of the ceremony, someone played Chris' saxophone while we all just sobbed. Many people spoke, but perhaps most surprising and most beautiful were Rachael's words.

Rachael was brutally honest about Chris, describing his talents and faults, the good and the bad. She also talked about how much she loved him for all of who he was. I felt like through her, I got a great picture of who Chris was and also of who she is. And I heard perhaps the best articulation of what unconditional love is all about.

The last time I was in the church where the ceremony was held was to attend Daniel's memorial service. On that day, Rachael spoke with Chris standing behind her. When she broke down and could read no further, Chris took her printed speech from her and continued reading from where she left off. I think about how in some ways she'll be fine eventually -- she will keep going -- but also of how much she'll miss him, how much they completed each other.

After the ceremony, some of Daniel's friends opted not to go to the cemetery, but to sit together and eat lunch, and just talk and catch up. I will try to call Rachael this week.

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This morning I read the obituaries and was sad to note that an acquaintance from town has died, Don Duncan. He and I served on the board of the local Community Chest, overlapping for several years, and mourned the death of our chairman about five years ago. I loved how straightforward Don was and how dedicated he was to bringing good into the world. We will certainly be poorer without him. Robert and I will attend his wake tomorrow night.

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Last night, we received a call from Robert's parents, nominally to tell us that they may not be able to come for a planned visit ten days hence. That was really the purpose of the call, but while they were on the phone, they thought they might mention the reason, which is that Robert's paternal grandmother is very ill. Robert's sister, who is an MD, talked to the doctors today and was able to give us more information. It's not really clear what's wrong except that there is something very wrong. It's probably not worthwhile finding out the cause. Robert's grandmother is being given comfort care and has some family near by. We're not sure if R's parents have already left to go visit, or if they're waiting for more information. For now, Robert will stay put until he knows more.

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Today, the weather turned enough so that it was tolerable to spend a few hours outside. Robert and I planted over 100 bulbs -- I had bought 75 daffodils, and Robert had bought some grape hyacinths, starflowers, and hardy cyclamens. We planted the cyclamens in Mark's memorial garden because they'll bloom in late summer, we hope.

We worked side by side going fairly quickly, talking a little, being silent the rest of the time. I thought about how wonderful it will be to see the buds sprout, a return on our investment in helping them grow. I thought about how reassuring it is to see spring come year after year after so much darkness, how the anticipation of the return of light and life help me survive the darkest times. And Robert said that he thought about how much care his grandmother took with her garden, and how, after the farm had been sold, we took her back to visit and she was glad that her plants were well tended to.

So much death, but hope also. The light does return and it will again, long after we are all gone.