Yesterday I had the privilege of sharing in the sorrow of a good friend. It is a privilege when we are invited into the intimate moments of another's life. Weddings, births and funerals...times that require a certain closeness in order to fully participate in the joy or the sorrow of the moment.
It was heart wrenching to watch my friend, tears running down his cheeks, climb down into the small grave and take the tiny casket of his premature, still born baby in his hands and place it on the hard earth. It had begun to rain, unusual for this time of year, which only added to the somberness of the moment. We stood together, huddled under umbrellas, circling the grave, silently, as men stepped forward taking turns slowly shoveling the hard clumps of dirt onto the small casket. Someone began to sing softly, Amazing Grace, others joined in. An old, familiar song, sung in another language, and twice as beautiful because of it.
I watched my friend take a small wooden cross, made with his own hands, the name of his child hand carved into it, and place it at the head of the grave. He took his turn at the shovel, placing each shovel full of dirt with same care with which he does all his work, filling the edges of the grave, mounding it up.
For my friend, it is the hope of the Resurrection that gives him peace in this moment of sorrow. It is the belief that this child, with whom he was unable to spend even one day here on earth, will be waiting for him in Heaven.
It was heart wrenching to watch my friend, tears running down his cheeks, climb down into the small grave and take the tiny casket of his premature, still born baby in his hands and place it on the hard earth. It had begun to rain, unusual for this time of year, which only added to the somberness of the moment. We stood together, huddled under umbrellas, circling the grave, silently, as men stepped forward taking turns slowly shoveling the hard clumps of dirt onto the small casket. Someone began to sing softly, Amazing Grace, others joined in. An old, familiar song, sung in another language, and twice as beautiful because of it.
I watched my friend take a small wooden cross, made with his own hands, the name of his child hand carved into it, and place it at the head of the grave. He took his turn at the shovel, placing each shovel full of dirt with same care with which he does all his work, filling the edges of the grave, mounding it up.
For my friend, it is the hope of the Resurrection that gives him peace in this moment of sorrow. It is the belief that this child, with whom he was unable to spend even one day here on earth, will be waiting for him in Heaven.
very sad! I hurt for him. I know it isn't the same thing but I am facing my own heartache. Grizzley prob won't be around a lot longer. Bad liver. I am devastated. death in any form is so painful. amy
ReplyDeleteI agree Amy, Death is terrible. We are sorry to hear about Grizzy.
ReplyDelete