The end. At a funeral yesterday, a naval veteran was laid to rest. I didn’t know him well, but all such partings are sad, and fraught with memories of what was, designs of what could have been; thoughts of what should have been. In brief, impersonal services, brought to us by personnel who didn’t know the fellow, assurance was the theme. All of it was sincerely meant, and probably, carefully, tastefully true, yet a bit void. Until that moment…
As two Naval officers stepped forward to present the United States Flag, a third, an angel, I think, stepped out of the mausoleum and began… with the first note, I gasp for breath, then hold it.
The soul in it’s timbre is like the cry of the ages. I think it was her exquisite execution, her command of the instrument; no, something more, something inexplicable, sublime, unearthly. And heart wrenching. There is a finality associated with the playing of “taps” that enervates me, like an angel of light with a devil’s tongue. No one else seemed to even cry, as if their hearts must have stopped; time must have stopped, and left me alone with the mournful melody. I tried to hold my straight face; dared not glance at my husband, while the losses creeping in his memory are being poured out through the end of a horn for all to hear. Would he break down if I looked? I guess I’m more afraid that I am the only one so moved by the haunting strains; I feel as if I could wail, while my chest heaves silently.
It’s not even about an uncle I didn’t know; but rather, another void in the family; opportunities never to be redeemed, endings that can’t be re-written. The pain is about Resurrection Cemetery, a place that holds a coffin for me, full of dead things, things I can’t know about my husband’s family, things I can’t pass on to my children. What I feel is the emptiness of a family I came into too late, after damage was done, division sown, and souls had moved on; one that didn’t share too much, for reasons I’ll never know. Heaven knows their grandmother didn’t raise them that way.
She, too, passed before I became a part of my man’s story, but I know her a bit. I know Grandma because she was a writer. We only have a few pages, and they are typewritten and faded, but oh, so precious. She had a habit of jotting down thoughts to the grandkids, and some made the journey into our possession just before the funeral; I read them when we got home. She knew my husband; really and truly, from the time he was young. She was keenly perceptive. She knew that what you are very early can determine what you are for the rest of your life. I know she loved my husband. I know because her words live, though her throat is silent.
Two voices called to me from across eternity yesterday; one reminding me of the devastating permanence of death. It was clear, poignant, succinct and cruel in it’s perfection.
The second voice is common, astute; it speaks only of the good. It is inelegant and comical, borne on material of such poor visual quality as to give no pause; I can’t believe these pages survived the years. But they did, thank the Lord, and they are the voice of hope, and they speak volumes; causing a symphony of praise in my soul where a perfect melody tried to steal my joy only hours earlier. These few words give, rather than take.
What a blessing, precious words.
There is no ending that is not a beginning. There is no voice louder than that of love. There is no pain that God can’t redeem.
“Day is done, gone the sun from the lake, from the hills, from the sky. All is well, safely rest…God is nigh.”
Rm 2009
