In the past few months I've been to three funerals. One was not entirely unexpected. One was a total shock. And one was somewhere in between.
I first met Carl when I joined the local Lions Club a few years back. Even then he was a walking miracle. He told me he was supposed to die decades ago but he just didn't. With a faulty ticker and more complications than I can accurately remember, he was one of the most optimistic and encouraging people I've ever met.
"How's it going, Carl?" inevitably someone at our club meetings would ask. The answer was always the same.
"Oh, can't complain." And he didn't. No matter how severe his pallor or how slow his gait, he always had a story to tell that would make everyone laugh. And most of his stories were true. Or mostly true.
One summer the Lions Club bought a few picnic tables and a gazebo for the local park. My friend Susan and I were brushing stain on the new wood and Carl was helping. He was too weak to stand so he sat at one of the tables and worked on what he could, regaling us with tales of his crazy exploits in days gone by. Our shrieks of laughter raised questions from other club members who were busy painting, just a little out of hearing range. Gasping for breath and with tears running we told them it was Carl's fault.
When we had any local club events Carl was there. If it was a bad day and he was too tired to stand, he sat and collected money or handed out drinks. His only gripe was that he "can't help more." He never comprehended that he was indispensable.
One day he came early to a club meeting and I was there alone, setting up. We got to talking and he told me, "the two best decisions I've
ever made were giving my life to the Lord and marrying my wife." When
he told me what the Lord meant to him it made me think of some things in
a new way.
I grew up in a very conservative denomination. I think in my subconscious I equated having too good a time with questionable spiritual sincerity. Yet here was someone who knew how to pull all the enjoyment possible from life, who was usually surrounded by laughter and craziness, and he was telling me matter-of-factually that he and the Lord were friends. And I could tell it was true.
Carl's funeral was a great celebration of his life. His son told stories that had everyone laughing. Carl would have loved it. He was going to be missed. A lot.
I got the call about Abby just hours before she died. She was three years old and fighting for her life. Or maybe she was already gone and her body just hadn't given up yet. She'd been playing with her brother and two sisters, cooling off in a shallow pool on a warm summer day. No one knows what happened. But suddenly the chattering of the children turned to screams and the lives of those still here would never be the same.
Abby's mother is a niece of Paul's. She had wanted children for quite awhile before she got them. When four came in quick succession it was easy to see she was doing what she was made to do. I only knew Abby from Facebook and occasional family reunions but the heaviness I felt when I got the call that she was gone felt like lead in my gut. How would her mother go on after an inexplicable tragedy like this?
As is often the case, the many obligations we think can't be avoided really can. I rescheduled things and drove to the funeral several states away. It was an emotional mine field. The video of Abby singing songs and "reading" The Very Hungry Caterpillar made us all laugh. Her aunt and uncle singing Jesus Loves Me made us all weep. Releasing hundreds of balloons and watching them drift up and away was a poignant reminder of the transient nature of our lives. And watching that little white coffin sink into the cold, hard earth, projected the brutal truth with stark, face-slamming absoluteness.
It's all well and good to know she's safe in the arms of Jesus. That doesn't change the bitter fact that her mother and father had to go home without her. How does a mother bury her child? I don't know.
Abby's mother is a writer and she chose to share her grief publicly. Through her humble openness many lives have already changed. She has allowed us the privilege of traveling with her on this terrible journey, as much as our empathy will allow. No one can truly travel that path without experiencing it in reality. But we can try. The best we can.
The last to leave was Mo. I had known him years ago as Dr. He had delivered me of my children. When he moved on from his local practice I did not see him again for decades. And then I joined Lions and there he was. He and Carl. They were friends.
Mo had a few health problems of his own but they were well-controlled. He rarely ever mentioned his diabetes and I didn't even know he had a defibrillator until after he was gone. He was an avid hunter, but with a camera instead of a gun. He was a quiet man for the most part but occasionally we were able to pull a story or two from him. He had plenty of adventures with that lens of his. Close encounters with wild animals were relayed with a calmness contradicting the chances he took to get the perfect shot.
Every birthday and anniversary Paul and I received a hand-crafted card with one of Mo's photographs on the front. A personal note always wished us well; they were special to us, those cards. And we kept them all.
Although he rarely talked about himself, a few facts still surfaced occasionally. He was a huge OSU fan; not hard to figure out since his license plate said OSU MO. I heard he took tailgating to a whole new level; I heard this from the people he invited along.
He traveled hundreds of miles to cheer on our local little league teams who were competing on national levels, but I only knew this because the parents of the players told me how much it meant to them. He invited men he barely knew to his Canadian fishing week; men who returned to tell the tales of their adventures. Mo said very little about it himself.
When I was voted president of the Lions I nearly panicked. What did I know about presiding over a club? Nothing. Mo had been a Lion for years. He promised me I could do it. And with his help, I did. I told him he made me look good. I knew I was barely competent. And I was pretty sure he knew it too. But I could always ask for his help. And he always gave it.
I heard he was in the hospital but his family was thinking he'd be coming home in a day or two. And then he was gone.
These three were so different from each other. Carl faced his mortality for decades before he left but laughter surrounded him. He showed me what true courage looks like. Abby danced through her universe never giving a thought to how fleeting her stay would be. From all I've heard she was an exceptional little sprite who made every place brighter for having been there. Mo walked his path without fanfare, leaving an indelible remembrance for those who accompanied him on this trip or that. He was eulogized for accomplishments he never spoke of, reminding me that underestimating others is a certainty.
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