Well, I have been silent for over a week. When I was younger I was told "if you don't have anything nice to say don't say anything at all!". This last week it has been a case of not really being able to formulate and process what it is that I would want to say rather than having something unkind or not nice to say.
On Thursday I attended the funeral of a two day old boy, a little man whose face I never saw. Sometimes there are no words....
I used to work with his father for a number of years and over time we became friends. His father met and fell in love with his mother and they married. I vividly recall bumping into his father who seemed to be walking on air a few months ago. He told me he had news and we went to a nearby coffee shop - it was clearly good news as he bought the coffees! He then proceeded to tell that me that he and his wife were expecting their first child, she was very nauseous and weary and he was thrilled to bits. He really was the cat who'd got the cream - or at least the skinny lattes that day!
We met again before Christmas when he was reciting some of his poetry at a Christmas event. Poems of meaning, insight, humour and wisdom. In between recitations the talk was of the pregnancy, and impending fatherhood - that time the lattes were on me!
Then unexpected disaster, the baby had to be delivered 10 weeks early and was very ill. During his short life he met all his close family and was christened.
So the funeral - the smallest coffin I have ever seen, the smallest wreath of spring flowers. It was profoundly sad and still there seemed to be no words. But during the silence, the songs, the prayers and the Eucharist inside an old church building there seemed to be a peace and sense of well being emerging for those present as the service progressed. The parents were naturally consumed with grief and yet there was a strength in the father and an elegance in the mother that was unexpected. These qualities seemed to grow in them as they so publicly owned their loss and disappointment. There was talk of hope and a future in heaven, of eternal purposes and meaningful lives. His father, the poet, did not write poetry but a moving and meaningful tribute to his son, his wife, their family and friends which recounted the events of the long three weeks that preceded that funeral day. There were words, written from the heart, from a place of knowledge, love and suffering. At last there were appropriate words.
After his little body was laid in the ground under an old tree in the ancient churchyard and painful goodbyes were said by members of his close family, we enjoyed hospitality and welcome that was gracious and generous. We met old friends and made new ones.
How strange that someone I never met has impacted my life so profoundly. I feel sure that I will remember his name and his funeral my whole life. It was made meaningful by the honesty, openness, generosity and hospitality of this little man's parents who wanted to celebrate a short life, own the pain of loving and losing and mark the value of friendship and being with those who care for you in such impossible circumstances. It profound because the only people who had the right to say something found courage and inspiration and spoke.
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