Because I can only do
September 11, 2006
Last night was the memorial service for my friend’s husband. Unable to truly help, I entangled myself in the preparations for the reception after the service. I stayed in the kitchen, where the lighting flickers, overhead and fluorescent, and the women gather to offer help and love in tangible forms such as lemon bars.
Outside of the kitchen, in the sanctuary, the light was gathered in soft pools around the altar and collection of memorabilia nearby. Music played just underneath the whispers of people who wandered in and sat uncomfortably. A display of pictures by the front door was being fiddled with. The scent of roses trickled down from the arrangements all around.
But I stayed in the kitchen, where women gather and yank up their sleeves, asking, “What can I do?” I collected pans of brownies and trays of vegetables and repeated, “Thank you, thank you, thanks so much.” We huddled, the women in the kitchen, discussing issues of vases and serving spoons, fretting over the details that don’t really matter, yet undergird the things that do.
When the service started I took my seat. My fingers left small dots of caramel on the back of the program, and although I surreptitiously tried to wipe the stickiness away, the paper gently snagged my skin whenever I turned a page.
My friend sat in the front row. I could see the curve of her cheek leaning down to brush the top of her son’s head. Just beyond them was my own son, my firstborn. He was standing tall in his white robe, quietly doing his work as acolyte. Once upon a time, about five years ago, he was a tiny boy, wild with grief at losing his father. I watched him work behind the altar, assisting the priest with dignity and grace. Look, I wanted to tell my friend, right there is a promise for your future. Our broken children, they survive. They thrive.
But there was no time for talk like that, no way to break into her shock and really talk. I am not all that capable with the words I speak anyhow. I end up saying a pale shadow of what I mean, so I sat quietly in the back, holding my program with the sticky spots.
After the service we moved to the room for the reception. I kept to the periphery of the room, watching people talk, eyeing the food trays and hoping there was enough. I saw my friend, struggling to respond to all the people who approached her with words of comfort. She looked at them with eyes that were red-rimmed and yet dry with shock, and answered as though from inside a fog. It reminded me of a dark echo of my own joyful haze on my wedding day – too much emotion, too many people, words too inadequate, but repeated, “Thank you for coming. Thank you. Thank you.”
I wanted to put my arms around her, to shore her up for the feelings that break through and drain away at the most unexpected times.
But I know I can’t carry her through this, so I murmured a prayer to the only One who can, and instead carried trays of half-filled coffee cups back to the kitchen, taking slow, measured steps so they wouldn’t spill.
Sometimes our presence is all that is required. Your friend knows that you are there for her and simply appreciates you just....being. Don't forget her in the coming weeks after everyone is gone back to their lives and when she's still trying to pick up her pieces. You are a good friend.
Posted by: Rita | September 12, 2006 at 03:27 AM
I'm sure you were a welcome shore along what felt like an endless sea.
Amen to our broken children healing. She will know it, too, someday.
Posted by: Mir | September 12, 2006 at 06:28 AM
girl, you are so eloquent it makes my (grey) hair stand on end! midwest protestant funerals all seem to roll out exactly like this (without the eloquence.) being there was the best gift for your friend right then. you'll know what to do next.
Posted by: chris | September 12, 2006 at 07:57 AM
That was beautiful.
Posted by: Groovecatmom | September 12, 2006 at 01:18 PM
it means an awful lot to have your friends there at the funeral, even though you can't possibly express it through your shock. What you said was beautiful. Do you ever read Ann Lamott? She writes about much the same kind of thing, that showing love is largely a matter of just showing up to be with the person. Yes, broken children and broken hearts heal. Slowly. Eventually. The One who can help does in the quietest way possible. The unbridgeable abyss of grief does begin to fill up with all the days After. It is a miracle. It heals and always reminds you of what you've been through.
Posted by: Peggy Spence | September 12, 2006 at 03:33 PM