A Funeral
I attended a funeral today. Sara was 51 years old, a kindergarten teacher. She lost a courageous, four-year battle with cancer. She leaves behind Jack, her husband, and three children: a son, and two daughters. The youngest daughter, Meredith, is a freshman at an all-girls high school. Her entire class was there. Sara's oldest daughter, Marissa, a college student, stared ahead as I hugged her. It all was going to take a while to register with her. Sara's own mother, frail and distraught, made her way to the front pew on her son-in-law's arm. The church was packed.
The priest delivered a lovely sermon. About how he didn't know Sara personally, but that we are all connected in a "sea of humanity"—beyond knowing, beyond religion, even. When something is added, that is felt by the whole. And, when something is taken away, that, too, is felt. When kindness is shown, it goes out to all. Sara taught children and old. She showed kindness. Her grown students came to the viewing to pay their respects. Her ripple was felt throughout the whole fabric of humanity. And, now, her passing is felt, as well.
But, I look at Marissa's face, and I think: There should be a law against this. Bad people should die. Good people should live. Nineteen-year-old girls shouldn't lose their mothers. Eighty-year-old mothers shouldn't lose their daughters. Why does this happen?
A baby cries. Her dad grabs her diaper bag and heads toward the door. Noses sniffle. A soloist sings. "All I ask is forever to remember me as loving you..." Jack has a friend read what is essentially a love letter about his life with Sara. They first met when she was 15 and he 18. When they married, they hyphenated their last names. She directed the course of his life, he said. She was his best friend. They prayed for a miracle to end her cancer, but she was the miracle. The miracle in other people's lives.
A mother and daughter hold hands throughout the Mass. They cry softly in each other's arms. They still have one another, and they will make every day count. We stop crying. My daughter Sarah looks at me. I say to her, "We have to adopt Marissa, you know." She nods in agreement...
The priest delivered a lovely sermon. About how he didn't know Sara personally, but that we are all connected in a "sea of humanity"—beyond knowing, beyond religion, even. When something is added, that is felt by the whole. And, when something is taken away, that, too, is felt. When kindness is shown, it goes out to all. Sara taught children and old. She showed kindness. Her grown students came to the viewing to pay their respects. Her ripple was felt throughout the whole fabric of humanity. And, now, her passing is felt, as well.
But, I look at Marissa's face, and I think: There should be a law against this. Bad people should die. Good people should live. Nineteen-year-old girls shouldn't lose their mothers. Eighty-year-old mothers shouldn't lose their daughters. Why does this happen?
A baby cries. Her dad grabs her diaper bag and heads toward the door. Noses sniffle. A soloist sings. "All I ask is forever to remember me as loving you..." Jack has a friend read what is essentially a love letter about his life with Sara. They first met when she was 15 and he 18. When they married, they hyphenated their last names. She directed the course of his life, he said. She was his best friend. They prayed for a miracle to end her cancer, but she was the miracle. The miracle in other people's lives.
A mother and daughter hold hands throughout the Mass. They cry softly in each other's arms. They still have one another, and they will make every day count. We stop crying. My daughter Sarah looks at me. I say to her, "We have to adopt Marissa, you know." She nods in agreement...
posted by Carpe Diem at 6:18 PM
1 Comments:
life is unfair. it steals mothers from daughters when they need them most. my mom's best friend died of cancer when her oldest daughter was 8 mos pregnant with her first grandchild and her youngest daughter was to be married in 6 months.
andrea and kate are like sisters to me. my mom is their "honorary" aunt, and for a long time marykate (born 1 month to the date of her grandmother's death) thought of my mom as her grandmom.
so please, if the girls are willing, adopt them. be there for them. be the female wisdom for them. they will certainly need it in their lives.
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