Today was M.E.'s funeral. I only went to the service, not the burial or reception.
It was a morning to absorb, to be a part of things, but also to observe and empathize with those who were grieving far more poignantly than I.
M was my main focus, to be honest. Some self-consciousness competed: I was the youngest person present by an easy 2 decades (apart from the pastor). But it was gratifying to see so many people come, and to hear Mom and Dad tell anecdotes, and to sing with Mom (rather better than any of our practices). I was really a small player in the day. But I'm glad I went, and did what I did.
M.E.'s body looked sweet and composed, if alien. Not wholly like her. I touched her hand - the firmness, not the coldness, surprised me. It felt like stiff wax.
Our own mixed CD played in the background, an eerie yet comforting sound. The room was pleasant enough, for that kind of thing. But pastel floral prints, stale perfume, and Life Savers gave it a closeness and ceremony that could have been well balanced by the graveside on a day like today: wet, sharp, newly cleansed and subdued by the first hard frost.
I came home early to hold class as usual. I finished Jane Eyre, painted more on "Apple Tree by Morning Light".
Mom and I are getting up early to shop, and I should sleep. But I want to say a few things:
Show me how my life can really count in this era, for racial justice, for refugees, for the unborn, the unwanted.
Give me real love for real people. Don't let my affections cool and retract. I must give, and touch, and trust others, and that's hard.
Help me to see Your heart. To understand Who You are, and the deep blissful goodness and rightness of Your ways. I don't.
Help me to trust You and obey You willingly and warmly even in my doubts.
Stir up a generous heart in me.
