Adam

Two hundred feet crunching through fresh wet snow behind the pall-bearers make a very final sound. Nobody's in a hurry but nobody's too slow. I wonder if that loud but muffled groaning would sound as ominous if the listener didn't know the context.

Adam was smart, caring, creative and playful—which sounds like all the usual platitudes, except that they were true. And he was only 41, and newlywed. And we didn't have nearly enough time with him over the years.

It isn't supposed to be like this. We don't just mourn for our loss, or rejoice for the spirit returning to his Savior. We mourn because this is a real loss, a breakdown in the intended nature of things. “All things work together for good” is not the same as “all things are good” or even that God intends all things. We get a vote in the proceedings. So do some sinister others.

When I hear the news and the ugly to-and-fro of politics and fashion trying to polarize the world into two wrong sides, I hear Gounod's chorus in the background: “et satan conduit la bal.” In the end God wins, but in the meantime the war's on.

God will make good come of this. Somehow. No clue how.

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If there is any choice in the matter, I'd rather my funeral be the “we commit our brother”/”ashes to ashes” version. We rarely do better. And I see value in standing by as the casket is lowered, and at least trying to throw in a handful of dirt. It's painful, but real and final, and I think it better than walking away from a coffin still visible and uncommitted to the earth. Maybe it hurts too much to work that symbol, but it is better to know the hurt than hide it.