When The Words Don’t…

There are many sounds at a funeral.

Last night, I heard bursts of laughter, whispers between colleagues and friends. I heard noses blown and one chorus of “Hallelujah’ (by Leonard Cohen, performed by Jeff Buckley) when for a few seconds, a soft silence filled the room.

The room was filled with people for two hours straight. The line flowed out of the chapel into the parking lot, and wind-whipped, everyone waited to sign the guest book, to see the photos, to embrace the bereaved.

I heard backs slapped. Over and over, strong hands of men, slapping each other’s backs. I heard throats tighten with emotion. I heard hearts beating in unison.

I heard, “I’m sorry.” I heard, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” I heard heads shaking in disbelief. I heard hands gripping. I heard water pouring into plastic cups and mouths unparching.

I heard, “I don’t know how I’m going to speak tomorrow.”

I watched how love took shape in bodies and faces and hands and sounds. I watched how humans let grief step inside, briefly. I watched how humans kept grief at a distance. I watched how humans denied grief in full.

Some of us wore black.

I watched young people laugh – sharing stories from a past without the loss in the present.

What do you say when the loss is too big for words? When the words don’t fit? When the words you want to say are in rage to the reality of mortality?

I watched veins pop in foreheads and tears burst like seed shoots.

When the words don’t come, it’s okay. When the words don’t fit, it’s okay.

Cry. Laugh. Remember…

Love is a language beyond words, beyond voice…beyond the body…yet so fully alive in the body…a vessel for our souls to thrive…and when the vessel sheds…we learn how to love with light.