When Tomorrow Comes

I was saying good-bye to Patricia in her office on Saturday, and as we hugged one last time she asked doubtfully if I’d be coming to church today. “Of course,” I said with complete certainty. “Church is the best part of my week!” One big reason for that statement is Sunday School at St. Dunstan’s. I was looking forward to the visit of the Rev. John Talbird, a friend of Patricia’s from Chattanooga, who was in Port au Prince when the earthquake struck in Haiti.

But the reason she asked that question about showing up was actually pretty valid -- last Sunday after church I found out that someone I had loved dearly died suddenly and unexpectedly. I’d spent the past hour or so in her office, talking through my grief with a box of tissues, trying to comprehend the incomprehensible -- death is permanent. Not like getting stranded on the highway, or moving to another city or being ship-wrecked for 20 years. For those of us left, it’s that strange realization that we will never hear the voice of our loved one again.

Anyway, we planned the funeral and Patricia took me to the inner sanctum, the sacristy room where the altar guild works its magic, weaving sacred symbols and mysteries into the services. She pulled out a box, the one where ashes are placed, and walked me through the service, told me where the box sat, showed me the path to the memorial garden where I sat a moment on the slate wall at the edge of the trees.

The altar was already decorated with the red cloth flames for Pentecost. I questioned myself if I belonged in public just yet this morning, if I was ready to face people, which I’ve done a fairly good job of avoiding this past week, allowing just enough grief out at any given moment that I can stand it, trying to control the flood of memories and tears.

When I got to St. Dunstan’s for the early service, I knew it didn’t matter. Who else should you be with at such times if not the people you love, who love you back. I got through the service pretty well until the Prayers of the People. As soon as Patricia said “The peace of the Lord be with you . . .” I knew I should have brought Kleenex or grabbed a wad of toilet paper from the bathroom before the service began.

I told Nancy Dillon, who was sitting beside me, and who immediately dug down in her purse and produced a fresh travel pack of tissues. I cautiously began passing peace, not at all certain of myself, but feeling the strength of my friends, an extra strong hug, a warm and sympathetic smile.

We headed to the altar for the Eucharist, where tears began streaming down my face, soaking the altar rail. I felt Nancy’s comforting hand on my back, the chewy wheat communion bread and red wine, washed down with blessings, made true by faith and love.

This afternoon, I was at the customer service counter at the Kroger when a sort of short, barrel-shaped woman with thin gray hair pulled back in a pony tail came up beside me. “I’m in a hurry,” she said. “My daughter died last night.” I let her go ahead. She was from Ellijay, up in the mountains. Her “baby girl” had just died of cervical cancer. She was trying to sell things I guess to pay for funeral costs. She said she had agreed to sell her computer for $30 but had only gotten $27. I reached out and put my hand on her, “I’m so sorry.” In her face, I saw my own grief and confusion. As she walked away, I saw her feet were bare, swollen and cracked.

Once outside, I scanned the parking lot for this grieving mother and hoped when she got back to Ellijay she wasn’t alone, that she had a community of friends and family —-as I do and am so grateful for--to hold her up and help her get to the other side.