Yesterday I had the joy of attending a funeral. Yes, the joy. It was everything the funeral of a Believer should be - full of grief - the pouring out of hearts "like water in the presence of the Lord" - and yet still so full of hope. There were uncomfortable moments, yes - but to heck with comfort. It was beautiful. Tears came down my face during the whole service and yet I left rejoicing. That's the way, I think, a funeral ought to be.
Stewart Bieber died just last Saturday, doing one of the things he loved most in life - barefoot waterskiing - what he called "walking on water." For some reason ("Why?" asked his wife, Rachel, at the funeral - "Why doesn't matter. I don't have that answer. What matters is that life comes out of death...'unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies'...") for some reason, while he was on the water he suddenly hit a dock and died instantly.
Rachel was there when it happened. You would think she'd have struggled to speak clearly at the funeral. What grief compares to such loss? She did not struggle - or as she put it - the Rock of her salvation carried her through it - and you couldn't convince me more that this was absolutely true. She reminded us of all the things Stewart was in life, all the pain of seeing his face in the water at his death, all the rage and numbness that resulted in the coming days, and then all the grace that permeated her life and the lives of others in Stewart's wake. Everything she said was riveting - it was clear this was no ordinary man. Stewart changed the world by embracing the power of relationships. Stewart lived for the joy of life, he sang with the tune of hope - and in doing so, his death was full of life.
When Rachel wailed with open arms at the funeral's close, it was the most welcome noise I've heard since Eponine's beautifully tragic voice joined in the final chorus of Les Mis. It was a wail full of real, a wail full of true. It was a wail of hope - a paradox that rivals only this: the fullness of life coming from the fullness of death.
I am reminded of Katherine Paterson (author of Bridge to Terabithia), whose son lost his best friend suddenly to a lightning bolt on a summer afternoon. After struggling to do all she could to comfort him, she said this, and it still fills me with wonder: "How many people in their whole lifetimes have a friend who is to them what Lisa was to David? When you have had such a gift, should you ever forget it? Of course he will forget a little. Even now he is making other friendships. His life will go on, though hers could not. And selfishly, I want his pain to ease. But how can I say that I want him to "get over it," as though having loved and been loved were some sort of disease?....He is not fully healed. Perhaps he never will be, and I am beginning to believe that this is right."
I, too, believe that this is right. Grief is real and loss is real. And Hope is real, too. So much Glory from so much Mess.
