from the pew in the middle

The combination of too many gray days strung together and the recent loss of two very dear people ~ a girl I've known since first grade and the mother of a friend/matriarch of a special family ~ has caused poor Keenan's mane to be soaked as of late.

The death of my friend was another sobering reminder of the fragility of life - of the devastating effect of unexpected tragedy's ability to boldly make its presence known yet again. I didn't need to be reminded.

Mary Jo is the first of us to leave.
One from my group of grammar school friends.

The tall, thin, gorgeous one wearing the white dress and the brightest smile.
This is our girl!

She left three children who are in their twenties; two daughters and a son, who will now have to maneuver through the remainder of their lives without the benefit of their mother's wisdom and advice when facing life's challenges or her presence to celebrate future milestones. And, she left her own mother to bear the sorrow of letting go of her daughter, still her beloved child even at the age of 52 years.

These three young adults matured before my eyes as the weight of responsibilities began settling firmly on their shoulders. Children, with the adult task of burying their mother. I marveled at their poise as each stood before the mourners gathered at mass, with their individual eulogies blending to capture the essence of our Mary Jo ~ a woman who was sweet and generous of heart, who could talk to the shiest of individuals and within minutes make them feel at ease, who reminded everyone to have a good time because a mess could always be cleaned up later, whose beaming smile, contagious laughter and vibrant personality lit any room she walked into...  who had the fine and often elusive art of living for the moment down to perfection.

With genuine exuberance, one daughter told us after mass that they would honor their mother's wishes by scattering her ashes from the top of a mountain in Colorado ~ a fitting tribute to recognize the need for Mary Jo's spirit to fly, unobstructed. Free.

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Catherine Mary, nee McGowan, a proud Irish lady she was, forged bravely through the adversity life tends to heap on certain chosen souls, and buried not only her husband, but two of her eight children as well - a son many years ago and a daughter, my friend, from cancer six years ago. Kay met cancer as well, and after facing the wreckage bestowed by this all too familiar adversary once again, was finally ready at the age of 79 for well-deserved peace. I must again emphasize here that I detest cancer. I don't think I can ever say those words enough.

For years, our community has been a privileged witness to the strength of this family as they stoically rallied around first one, and then the other. They cared for their own as each tragedy struck, and they graciously reached out to others in need (me, for one) through a delightful combination of selfless acts of generosity and an unbridled sense of humor. One could learn a multitude from The Battles.  Kay's daughter was not only my friend, but my principal/my boss, and though I didn't know at the time that I would one day draw upon her example with my own daughter, she was the role model who taught me it was possible to LIVE with cancer while raising four sons and running a school. Part of the reason she was able to do all of that was because she had Kay.

Kay's grandchildren are fully aware of her role in their lives. One of the four boys, now young men, spoke on behalf of the family at mass, delivering a poignant eulogy that clearly articulated their admiration, devotion and love for their grandmother. I just sat in that pew and thought ~ Dear God, the four of you buried your mother six years ago! How does this happen? And yet it does, and there they all were, as handsome, confident and eloquent as ever. You guys done good! Each and every one of you.

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These funerals occurred last weekend within a few days of one another, and though I attended a couple of others not long after Erin died, I found myself profoundly affected by Mary Jo's and Kay's. I understand now that the numbness of Erin's death still provided a protective coat against reality back then, and now I'm all here, so to speak. Also, my relationship with each of these families runs deep.

I know now that I was not all there when we went through the process with Erin, and as I sat at these two funerals, this time in a pew in the middle of the church as opposed to the prominent seat up front and center, I wondered how in God's name any of us is able to plan these beautiful farewells to our loved ones when we are so grief-stricken. My only explanation is that we all function on raw energy and adrenaline, and are fueled by the overwhelming need for our goodbyes to be perfect. At least I was.

Looking back now, I wouldn't change a thing we did. We'd sat in our living room by the fire the day after Erin died, and together carefully chose readings and songs we felt portrayed who she was, how she'd lived and how we hoped all would go forward carrying her spirit ~ changed "For Good". I know these two families just did the same thing.  Both services were beautiful.

As I entered the rooms in that same funeral home over the weekend, I envisioned the endless line of people who'd attended Erin's wake, and I caught myself reliving the scenes from that December day when Dave and I had first walked in to make the plans for our daughter.

I saw the room where we'd sat at the desk with the funeral director as he calmly guided us through unthinkable decisions ~ How many mass cards? 1200 please. What would you like printed on the back? The Tagore quote, now copied in my blog's sidebar. We need a snowflake printed behind the lettering. What kind of flowers would you like? Red roses, bunches of various evergreens, dogwood twigs - red. Simple. Nothing fussy. The school children all made paper snowflakes and wrote prayers to Erin on them. Can we hang them on the walls here? Thank you. Now, let's write the obituary for the newspapers. Will there be a luncheon afterward?...

And then, there's the door that opens to the stairway that leads to the room. By no means a Stairway to Heaven, this is an ascent to a hellish loft where the sight of so many boxes with brass handles threatens overwhelming suffocation as one's eyes dart from pine to oak to cherry to... and you're asked about this color lining and that color pillow, until you finally point THAT ONE and then babble, "When we drop off her clothes we're going to drop off her own pillow case from home, the lime green one with white polka dots from her bed." and then pray you don't fall as you run down those stairs while stifling the urge to scream at the top of your lungs.

They're going to put our daughter in a box made of cherry wood.

The awareness followed me into the church, and both days as I watched the families of Mary Jo and Kay walk the long aisle from vestibule to altar, I clearly saw our own family in them. I saw us enter the back of the church and gather around the casket. I saw the priest sprinkle the holy water to recall the waters of baptism and then lay the white pall to be draped over the top. I saw us walk up the aisle, and I remember, only from a sensation of periphery, that the church was filled. I couldn't take my eyes off the white-cloaked box now rolling along on wheels that held my daughter. I'd walked to the front pew with my family, looked straight ahead and tried to absorb as much of our carefully chosen readings and music as I could. I tried very hard not to cry because I wanted to hear it all. I know I only really heard part of it, but I know it was beautiful.

This time, as I sat in a pew in the middle of the church with friends, for Mary Jo and then for Kay, I was acutely aware of the readings and the music and the homilies, and I grieved. I felt sadness over the deaths of my friends and for the families they left behind, but I selfishly grieved for myself as well, for due to the clarity of it all now, I felt I said goodbye to Erin all over again in their goodbyes and I felt a surge of my own pain, fresh again in their pain.

But, I also clearly heard the strength of the voices of the children, the young adults who spoke with such confidence, and I remembered Chris doing the same in his eulogy for Erin, and in this time-suspended state of being, where I still feel like I certainly must be living someone else's life, I have the hope that ALL our beloved will never be forgotten.  I hope that their spirits will be carried out the doors of the church and on through the lives of those of us who continue on in this crazy world.

And through my grief, 
that thought makes me smile.