I haven't been sure about posting this, but I'm going to try. We attended the funeral recently of a man that I knew better second-hand than first person. I am friends with his wife and though we haven't lived in the same town for some time now, she always took the time to stop and see me when they were here visiting relatives. As we left the funeral I was struck by how little I had truly physically been in this man's presence. I could count them on my hands, yet I wept through the entire funeral. It puzzled me at first. I love his wife. She has taught me a lot. I mourn with her as I have with others in the past. I know something of what she will face, in a very small measure.
I also mourn for the losses I have experienced in my own life. My youngest brother's birthday is this month. He has been gone from this world for four years. "Moving on" is a phrase I hear from time to time where difficulties and death are concerned. I love something my Dad shared with me shortly after my brother's death - the pain doesn't really go away, it just gets scattered in amongst the joyful and sweet moments of life so it doesn't seem quite so large. That takes time. And it still hurts. I miss the way he could call forth my soul with a reed. He had a gift with wind instruments. I miss other things...even some of the annoying ones, and yet there are joyful moments, sweet ones. The arrival of our children and the experience of watching them grow. Celebrations, phone calls, packages, and friendship all pepper my life so that the moments of sadness come less often, but still with that same intensity of that first grief. There are others that I love who have gone on. Others that I miss. The special celebrations throughout the year bring them to my mind. Sometimes something that I see or hear makes me remember. I miss them, I hurt and yes, I also enjoy, love and live. That seems to me what living is.