The snow the day before was ominous. A bad tiding. The boys and I spent an hour stuck in traffic to go a mile after getting our haircuts. My friend Debby was in from California and on chauffeur duty for my daughter. She hadn’t driven in snow in thirty years, if ever. Lenny coached her through it on the big hills, with phrases I’d shouted at cars in the past, “whatever you do don’t stop!” Julie got grounded in her flight in from Boston. Kir, who had already taken two or three trains from Vermont had to take another to get to Chestnut Hill; it would have taken hours to get her in Center City. Philadelphia was gridlocked. Lori’s relatives driving in from Ohio had made great time, and spent two hours on the last three miles.
And yet, dinners were eaten. We all said it’s been too long since the last time I saw you. Was it six months? A year? Three? Too long, and the kids have grown and you look great. And remember that time when we were at the beach, the wedding, the graduation? Talking about anything and everything but what we had to do tomorrow.
But the next morning, was clear and bright. We shoveled the snow off our cars and our walks. Donuts were fetched. Ties were affixed. Snow boots put on, and dress shoes carried to the car.
I pulled up to park behind a car with a Maine license plate, Steve had driven down over two days to be with me and honor our New Mexico history together. Across the street, my brother Jon shoveled the walk of the church again. Students trickled in to their soundcheck.
The boys and their cousins threw snowballs in the yard and then rushed inside to warm up by the roaring fire in the parish house. We drank coffee and met each other again. My cousin Marilyn, meet Lori’s cousin Nick.
Folks wandered by looking for the bathroom and awkwardly encountered us. Too long, we’d say. It’s been too long since last I saw you. I promise I’ll come to Delaware, or Wisconsin, or DC again soon. There’s a wedding in Boston over Labor Day, I could arrange a side trip.
And finally, we entered. The Church was packed, three hundred or more. Please take a seat up front on the side, said the pastor. And some of you did, but still more stood in the back, afraid of the palpable wall of grief from our families, perhaps. Or wanting to share but not intrude.
And the service began. You required two ministers, your personal theology was complicated. The Episcopal host priest called in Mennonite reinforcements. We sang Amazing Grace and those who had never been to St. Martin’s discovered why we hold concerts there, the acoustics were perfect and we sounded warm and glad. Weber picked up the melody quickly, by the time we reached “Through many dangers, toils, and snares/ I have already come…” his 9 year old boy voice was clear and on-key.
We prayed.
Loretta told of you as a mother and a professional and how the instincts of one reinforced the other. Everyone laughed in the right places as she told the story of you escorting a nervous young couple to a showing holding the pause before “so when the gunshots rang out…” just long enough to get the maximum laugh.
Susan encouraged us to be like you:
“The best way to keep Lori with us is to do what she would do, and share it with others. Take a minute and think about something Lori liked and commit to doing it in her memory.
Here are just a few of the things that come to mind for me.
Go outside.
Go camping.
Ask a girl a question, instead of telling her something. Support her as she finds an answer.
Help others find their place and love their home.
Stand in the cold for something you care about (and it is totally okay to remember to bring hand-warmers!)
And definitely eat ice-cream for breakfast at least once a year.”
The Chamber Singers from school sang one of your favorite Christmas carols. They sang it joyfully and beautifully. And then Jarret gave the Homily. His text was supposed to be from Ecclesiastes but he went off-script. Instead he preached on this poem:
to love what death can touch.
to love, to hope, to dream, to be –
And oh, to lose.
to love.
your laugh once lifted me,
your word was gift to me.
a holy thing, to love
what death has touched.
The service was beautiful. It was everything I hoped for and more.
And then the hugging and the eating and the “it’s been too long.” And the “Seth, I can’t believe you drove down from Boston.” And “My dad fled to the car; he didn’t want you to see him cry.” And all the hugging and the introductions as we found our little groups, the New Mexico folks and the Michigan folks, and Swarthmore folks and the couple that drove in from Indianapolis to sit with Lori’s mom. “It’s been too long. it’s been too long since the last time I saw you. Was it six months? A year? Three?”
Later, my friend Mike finds me. He always tells me the truth because once you have lived together and been broken together by college AND grad school together, you are obligated to never to lie one another. “How long has it been?” We decide nine months. “You look like shit,” he whispers in my ear as we hug. He’s not wrong. I’m dehydrated so my wrinkles are pronounced, and my eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep and crying and trying not to cry and crying anyway.
More hugs. More introductions. More It’s been too long. it’s been too long since the last time I saw you. Was it six months? A year? Three?
Don’t wait too long, my friends.
It matters a lot not to.