When I drove up to First Presbyterian Church last week, I, for a moment, wondered if a wedding was ending. By the side-door stood a large group of sharply-dressed people in their 20s and early 30s; from my brief view through my windshield, I imagined they were waiting to cheer the newlyweds to their car. It was in that moment that I forgot that the person whose funeral I was attending would draw that kind of a crowd: his peer group.
Cannon Harmon was a high school classmate of mine though we did not know one another beyond names and faces. I wouldn’t have attended his funeral had we not shared a friend these many years. In that way, I was mourning her loss, and the loss felt by his friends and family more than Cannon himself. Funerals are, ultimately, for the living.
The minister spoke briefly of Cannon, but at greater length she spoke of the mourning process itself, of the strength the survivors have shown by struggling through their first five days without him and the validity – and necessity – of the tears, confusion and anger that inevitably accompany the death of a person who has not yet reached his 30th birthday.
The minister’s words, the bravery and honesty of the friends who delivered loving eulogies, the primal wail of the bagpipe that began and ended the service, the pews filled with people who likely feel closer to their college selves than their adult selves, the voluminous, imposing space that is First Presbyterian: All of these elements worked in tandem, giving mourners a space in which there was little to do but grieve.
I suppose in some ways, that is the point of a funeral, a time apart from our daily lives in which we are expected to embrace our sorrow, as though our complex emotions are stored in a sponge that can be wrung dry if only squeezed hard enough.
In Judaism, there are set stages for mourners to work through, a year-long process that ends, not with letting go of our loved one, but with moving on, re-embracing life. It starts with shiva, an intensive week of mourning. As the year progresses, mourners slowly re-enter life and, hopefully, replace much of the sadness with the joyful memories of that person. And, because we never stop loving the people we have lost, it is also part of Jewish tradition to commemorate the anniversary of the death, the yartzeit, by lighting a candle that burns for 24 hours and, often, attending synagogue and giving a charitable donation in the person’s honor. I’ve always been comforted by the idea of encouraged mourning with a finite time span; still, I can’t help but wonder if in a death marked by youth and too many unanswered questions, a meager year of mourning is too hasty.
The many people who signed the guest book attached to the News & Record obituary spoke of Cannon’s kindness and caring, his many talents and his love of life. I wish that the funeral could have somehow drained their sorrow but the truth is it is just the beginning, an invitation to experience the emotions his death has evoked in so many people. In whatever way he is mourned, his will likely not be a death easy to reconcile. It seems, however, that when it comes to Cannon, Alfred Lord Tennyson’s words hold particularly true: “’Tis better to have loved and lost/Than never to have loved at all.”
My deepest condolences to all of you.
No comments:
Post a Comment