Mourn With Those Who Mourn

The heaviness of the moment starts to weigh on my heart as I watch family and friends trickle into the foyer in waves. One by one they stop at a table covered in a white cloth and simply decorated with a large vase full of white lilies. After signing their name, guests pick up a program and proceed to the next line of tables bearing countless photographs of the young man taken from them so suddenly.

I have been praying for this moment all week. I felt led to serve this broken community in the wake of their absent son, father, fiance, friend, and peer. I knew I needed to go be among those mourning as a light in a dark place.

But today it hits a little too close to home. I stand outside the doors of the sanctuary and watch as photos fade in and out on the large screens on each side of the stage. A young man, barely thirty, is shown with his kids. His siblings. His friends and family. His fiance.

His attire and colorful markings across his skin remind me of my two boys. I think to myself, this could be my son.

This young man's death remains a mystery. Accident? Intentional? Only God knows. After I listen to family and friends share stories of their beloved, it sounds like the young man had a tough upbringing and made some difficult decisions for certain relatives to swallow. Regardless, they all recognized him as a friendly guy who got along with everyone. Which was evident by the sheer number of people that showed up at the funeral.

From the atrium I saw groups of guests take turns for smoke breaks throughout the service. Their unique characteristics reminded me of another memorial service I attended almost two years ago.

It was a mid-week service for our boys' biological father. Another sudden death with no sign it was coming. I remember meeting our sons' extended family members for the first time, some of whom showed signs of addiction and mental health disorders.

We were not welcome by everyone at the service, but we went anyways. Not to cause trouble, but to show our sons that we were grieving their loss with them and that we were close at hand if they needed us. We also wanted to offer protection for our fifteen-year-old as words can get twisted so easily, and the truth can be hard to find amidst darkness.

Today I attend as a silent witness to the grief and pain experienced all to soon for such a young life. My heart breaks for these lost ones searching for hope.

I help the ladies set out the sandwiches, chips, veggies, and dessert platters. A woman mentions how pretty the cinnamon rolls look that I made earlier that morning. I admit I am glad someone noticed. I think of all the care that different church families put into preparing food for this event. I marvel at the love shown by the body of Christ.

We rest for a few moments while the pastor finishes his sermon. He reminds us all that we need to be right with Jesus because none of us knows the number of our days.

Before the crowd is dismissed, a young girl floats through the foyer. She finds the food tables ready for their guests. I try not to stare as this eight-year-old gracefully serves herself. I watch as she balances multiple plates and a beverage. This is the same girl who spoke earlier about the loss of her father in front of two-hundred people. I am in awe of her strength and courage. She walks purposefully to her mother outside, who is taking a smoke break. The girl hands the plate to her mom. It looks like she is trying to care for her mother's needs and bring comfort.

I think back to my kids story. How many times did they try to help their parents in the midst of hardship and struggle? What motivated them to try to rescue their parents from their addictions and hang ups? How did they act so grown up at such a young age?

Based on my own experience, I'm guessing it was out of necessity and a need for security. What child doesn't want to feel safe under the care of their parents? When parents make questionable choices, some children learn how to step in. I don't know if that's the case for this eight-year-old. She simply exhibited an awareness that most eight-year-olds wouldn't have.

At last the mourners are dismissed and we find our places amidst them. I stand silently in respect, carefully observing if any trays need to be refilled. Some walk through downcast, others with a slight smile, a few with bloodshot eyes. I don't avoid their glance. They need to know someone sees them and cares about their pain.

It takes at least twenty minutes for everyone to get through the line. Kids run back for dessert and many need drink refills.

A few of the volunteers begin to fill their plates. I am thankful my tummy still feels satisfied from a Keto breakfast. I stay at my post and get the opportunity to serve them by refilling chips and dessert platters. I wonder how many times these women have shown such compassion on congregants who have lost loved ones in the past. Again, I am grateful for the body of Christ and the help each one provides.

I won't forget the privilege it was to serve today. I pray I continue to live out Romans 12:15 - Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.