The Best We Can Do

Dearest Rachel –

Obviously, from my side of the veil, I have no idea how you perceive time and events on this side anymore – assuming you could, or even would want to. There are those who claim that you and everybody else are asleep until the day the trumpet sounds, and we will all rise up together at once (well, I guess that – assuming I see that day from here – you’ll be rising first, but by such a small margin that it might be considered negligible). At the same time (almost literally), I understand that we’ll all be freed from the constraints of our physical existence in this universe, which very well may include that of the dimension of time and space.

That being said, if you – we – will be “unstuck in time,” to borrow Vonnegut’s expression, I find myself wondering if you might be able to look in on me as I try to make my way in life after your departure (among so many other moments in history, no doubt), even if you aren’t presently enjoying the delights of heaven, but rather sleep the proverbial sleep of the dead until the final day. It’s one of the reasons I write these things to you, with the assumption that in either case, the possibility exists that, in one way or another, you could look in on me and how I’m doing (whether you would want to do so, when there are so many other, wonderful things there to hold your attention, is another matter entirely).

If, however, you are experiencing your afterlife in a relatably sequential order, then it’s possible I need not mention the fact that there’s a young man – younger than Daniel, for one thing – who’s recently joined your company. I’m not sure if you’ve encountered him in the week or so since, but he’s basically the topic of the letter I’m sending you today.

Of course, Daniel and I aren’t going to his funeral for his sake; these ceremonies aren’t so much for the benefit of the deceased as they are for that of his loved ones’. The difficulty lies, however, in trying to figure out how to benefit them. You might think that, of all people to know what would do a person’s heart good in this situation, it would be us, since we’d suffered a similar sudden loss. You’d be wrong, of course, but it’s understandable that you’d think it.

For one thing, this isn’t quite a comparable situation. Your departure was sudden and freakish, no doubt, but in a way, it’s expected that – in a good, lasting marriage – one spouse is going to outlive the other. One of us was going to have to stand by the other’s bier and have to say goodbye; we just assumed it would be twenty or thirty years down the road, and that it would be you bidding me farewell, rather than the other way around. Here, we’re talking about a brother and a son. Having to bury a spouse is one thing; having to bury a child is the sort of situation that leaves one saying “this shouldn’t be happening this way.”

At the same time, the words barely form in one’s mind and emerge from one’s mouth before it occurs to one how presumptuous they sound. To say that something “shouldn’t be happening” a certain way is essentially calling the Almighty out for having made a mistake; and who are we to be qualified to do that? Just because He chooses to keep His plan from us, does that entitle us to claim that He doesn’t have one? Or worse, that He got it wrong? But it is hard no to wish, like Job, that He would at least deign to explain this to us, so that we could have the comfort, however small, of knowing how these sorts of things fit into His plan and work to the good that all things are supposed to.

But as He remains silent, it falls to us fellow humans to offer what comfort we can, and from my own experience… I’ve got nothing. Even as the crowds assemble, while it may be gratifying that so many people wish to pay their respects and wish the family well, I recall that the faces were – apart from a few surprising exceptions – something of a blur. And that was with the limited attendance allowances mandated by the Covid regime; with them long since lifted, there are that many more willing (and in some cases, feeling obligated) to make an appearance. People’s presence is meant as a comfort, but in some respects, the trouble of remembering names and faces in the midst of trauma and grief is a difficulty all its own. It’s better than having no mourners, I suppose, but I’m not sure it’s the comfort that it’s intended to be.

And then, there’s the question of what – if anything – to say. Job’s friends had it more right at first; they were silently commiserating with him for a long time. Only when Job began to speak and complain about his situation did they take offense and speak up – at which point, they proved themselves to be greater fools than him (and that’s assuming he was being foolish in his complaints in the first place – although considering God’s tirade at him near the end of the book, one has to assume He didn’t think much of what he had to say). But we Westerners don’t know what to do with that level and length of silence – I certainly couldn’t keep my mouth shut for a whole week. In fact, I don’t think I know anyone who could manage that for even a whole day. To our credit, we don’t accuse the family of having done something to cause this, but what do you say to ease the pain of loss?

Honestly, there don’t seem to be any good words to offer. And while even one’s presence doesn’t necessarily offer the comfort we’d like to think, it’s the best we can do for them, even if it’s none too good, in the final analysis.

So with that in mind, honey, keep an eye on us as we go, and another on Sam’s family. We’re all going to need it, one way or another.