Resting

Today we officially lay you to rest, but this is simply perfunctory. You have been at rest for a week now. It is we who now need to be at rest.

Your littlest sister looked at you -- so still -- at your memorial service and said simply, “Sissie, resting, sleeping. Jesus.” Profound words from someone not yet two.

Your middle sister had many more words. She was fascinated with your “zebrows” – those great bushy ones you had in life. Seeing not you, but your empty body, it was as if she saw them for the first time. She and I had a little talk about tents. How when we set up the tent and live in it it’s full of noise and laughter, but when we take it down it’s just a piece of cloth. She recognized that you were gone from your tent. She didn’t know how how many times I’ve read those 2 Corinthian verses in recent months. Perhaps in preparation.

The number of children at your service amazed me, but also warmed my heart. Families took time to bring their little ones of all ages who knew you and carefully explained that you were now at rest. Some of your classmates were particularly distressed, perhaps realizing that they too live in bodies that are somewhat broken. Your dad knelt by your best buddy in his wheelchair and stroked his head, hugged him for you, and helped him say goodbye.

My mind is seared with an image of your dear parents and your little sisters tucking a pink blanket around you, fluffing your wayward bangs, lightly kissing your forehead, and stepping back to let the box be closed. Young parents shouldn’t have to do this. Children bury parents, not the other way around. Yet, this is today’s reality.

Pastor J spoke of a broken world. You’ve left it behind.

Outside my window I can see your oak tree moving in the cold wind, brown against the white snow of today. This is your special tree, the one that always comes alive late, is a bit awkward in shape, and has a mind of it’s own. Definitely your tree.

Most of the trees will push their leaves in April, but I’ll be watching your oak tree. I suspect it will do the normal thing and not push leaves till almost Memorial Day. It will come alive, though, and of that I have no doubt.

As will you. As will I. As will all those who understand from whence they came and where they are going when they stop breathing.. This morning is perfunctory, just part of the journey. A little urn laid on top of your great grandfather. You definitely are not there.

Rest well, little girl. But take time to run and dance and laugh and sing. We’ll come as soon as we can.