“And why is it so important to act strong? I have been graced with the strength to endure. But I have been assaulted, and in the assault wounded, grievously wounded. Am I to pretend otherwise? Wounds are ugly, I know. They repel. But must they always be swathed? I shall look at the world through tears. Perhaps I shall see things that dry-eyed I could not.”
As we continue to move through the pandemic, the unknown effects of the last year start to present themselves on our communities. We continue to venture deeper and deeper into the reality of day-to-day life, and I have begun wondering how death affects us. Sure, people die daily, and the ramifications of those relationships have crushed people for thousands of years, but rarely are we inundated with death as constantly as we have for the past year. Death is very intimate and communal; it’s something our American culture is particularly uncomfortable with in practice. Yet, it is a part of life I am intimately familiar with and distant from in many ways.
I have been to more funerals than anyone I know that is my age, and I do not mean I’ve been to ten, and most people I know have been to one or two. I have been to probably 100-200 funerals. I’ve been to more funerals than weddings. Some of them were people I knew, some I cared for deeply, some I hadn’t seen before that day. No, I don’t crash funerals, like some people crash parties. Growing up, my dad was a pastor, so I witnessed him eulogize multitudes. I, myself, spoke at a couple of funerals during my teenage years.
During my fourth grade year, I went to three funerals in one week. I remember the fear that crept into my life. I couldn’t sleep. I had recurring nightmares. I thought my parents were going to die. After all, young people were dying, family friends, church congregants. These painful elements of life stay with me. These memories are vivid. This rate of death didn’t continue, but it was consistent. I can think of times where a parent of some of my friends left this world. I can think of many faces where the life had been drained away, sometimes painfully early and other times not soon enough for the pain to subside.
Years later, a friend of mine passed away. He was a mentor, someone who believed in me in ways few besides my immediate family ever have. He was someone I could take talk to at church about life. I did not have to put on the stock PK (pastor’s kid) smile, which I probably didn’t do as well as I thought. I spoke at his funeral. To this day, that is one of the most challenging experiences of my life. My heart was a rock. I talked about our shared love of basketball, and I wept in front of the crowd. I will never forget him.
I used to cry a lot, not necessarily in public, but it happened. I was emotional, partially because I didn't understand what was going on in my life, body, and community. I would cry at church, primarily. I would well up when I "got saved" every Wednesday night, when I would worship and pray for my friends. I even cried when I delivered sermons in my youth too. It was something I resented about myself, but I cared so deeply about those words. Now, I can't remember the last time I cried.
Sure, it happens, sometimes a song will get me, or a movie that really pulls on the heartstrings will make me tear up slightly. When I think of tears, though, these don't really count. These are more those single tear look off into the distance tears that we joke about all the time. I've written extensively about my longing for a healthier relationship between the American church and lament. I'm beginning to see that it is becoming less of a desire and more of a necessary practice if we choose to grow from the turmoil and chaos our communities, friends, and churches experienced.
As I walk through my day, I hear stories of people who have passed on due to COVID, who have died in other tragic circumstances, or simply left in their sleep. The bombardment of death is a brutal reality. Even for those who find hope in the afterlife, there is tension between our relationships throughout life and our ultimate destination in God. I am struck by the lack of empathy and kindness. Amy Peterson writes, “Kindness is, instead, about seeing the image of God in everyone, outsiders and insiders, and learning to love our kin in ways that don’t oppress others.” Kindness is about treating everyone like kin, welcoming people into the family.
Sadly, many may not have family, we may not have family that treats us well, or maybe we are perpetuating the mistreatment. However, as the fog of death infiltrates our lives and we begin to come above the haze, it may be worth considering how we can choose life. Death is inevitable, but the ways we choose to cling to truth, hope with one another and love people how they need to be loved, not just how we think they should be loved, provide us with avenues into the depths of pain and the heights of joy.
I have not cried deeply in a while, and I wish I could make myself sometimes. I've sought a level of emotional control that hinders feelings that allow us to see the world in all of its beauty and pain. Intellectually, I know these feelings. I understand their reality well, but maybe the tears that come with awe, the bleary eyes that only pain can bring are the ways that death can bring hope to our world. I pray it shapes our understanding and doesn't dry our eyes by separating us from one another.