A first for everything

It was a beautiful day as I stood next to my husband, holding tightly onto his hand as I looked past unfamiliar faces to find someone I knew. On the hour-long car ride we were joking with one another but now my voice couldn't find words besides a quiet, "This is too weird," and the occasional comment about wanting to find a friend. We stood on the grassy-edged sidewalk leading up to the funeral home dressed in gray, black, and dark blue; I didn't want to go inside yet.

I've only been to a funeral for a friend once before in my life, when I was 13 and hardly had any idea how to emotionally handle a 19-year old's suicide. The few others I'd been to were family members that I had a distant relationship with. This was different, a lot different. I heard the news two days after the accident happened and I wasn't really sure what to think. I'd been out of college for two and a half years and moved to Philadelphia -- far flung from my stomping grounds and closer friends in good old Kutztown PA. The news wasn't surreal so much as it was 'just weird' to me, and life over the weekend carried on as usual. My Kutztown life had been distant and disconnected that I could half expect everything to be the same if I went back to it. However, the reality and tangibility of it began to sink it's way beneath the surface when we decided to go into the funeral home and I saw Matt's face in the back of the foyer.
Then Josh, Trevor, Timmy, Grace. Black, gray, olive, blue, purple. Quiet and sullen.
Deep breath and trying to ignore the tightening in my chest.

We talked quietly as people continued to file in, going past the foyer and into the other room. We were called to come in because everything was ready. I wasn't ready yet. I don't think any of us were.

As we went inside and stayed close to the nearest wall we passed other friends. Bridget and Tara, Jodi and Kayla.. we stayed in a nook across from them. The service was nice. There were so many people. I needed a tissue as I hid half of my face in Scott's shoulder. He didn't get a chance to meet Chris or enjoy his goofy grin and Strongbad impressions; I think they would have been friends. I tried not to stain his gray shirt with salty tears or snot too badly as I thought about this, and praised the Lord that Scott would get a chance to meet Chris one day in the presence of God. Eventually, Bridget noticed I needed a tissue and gave me one. The service ended, we waited until we could go in line. Then we waited in line. I couldn't see anything at first because we were so far back and there were so many people. And then I noticed the open casket and my heart plummeted to my stomach.

I'm reminded of different thigns David Crowder and Mike Hogan talked about in Everybody Wants to Go to Heaven but Nobody Wants to Die. Good book and there's a bit of truth in what they discuss later in the book: "What you are looking at is familiar, but it's bot the person you knew. What you are looking at is only like the person you knew."
That was not what I was thinking at the time, though. I glanced over my shoulder to Scott and tightened my grip on his hand. I wanted to run. I wasn't expecting the open casket viewing because of the nature of the accident. I can't really handle open caskets to begin with so to see one unexpectedly was even worse. The first time I saw one was when I went to the funeral of a friend's father, and the second time was my step-grandfather. There's something about it that seizes me in my gut and my throat all at the same time. I know the casket was black with white material inside, but I couldn't tell you what Chris looked like; I couldn't look. When we passed I practically darted with blurried vision and clenched teeth.

I don't want to remember my friend that way.

We stepped outside into a sea of black and gray and the colors of mourning. I clung to my husband's side, occassionally letting go to embrace friends as they passed. Most of them I hadn't seen in a while... not exactly the most favorable of circumstances to play catch-up. We then moved on to the truck to join the 50-car plus caravan to the cemetary. I was mostly quiet. We walked through the grassy grave-stone studded cemetary to the tent where Chris was to be buried. The sky couldn't have been more clear a blue than it was Tuesday. In my head I said goodbye, prayed for his family, and wished I called over the summer. He was involved with the National Guard; as they played taps and as the shots split the air, I heard many of us crying just a little bit more than we were before. His mother's sobs were the last thing I heard as most of us stood there in silence for what seemed like a long time. It broke my heart for her. Slowly we walked away and talked solemnly with friends. Deep breath.

Today, back in Philadelphia, the funeral already seems distant. Life continues to move forward -- though I do wish I could find a particular photo of Chris and I our Sophomore year at Kutztown, sitting in the hallway outside of Jodi's old dorm room.

RIP Chris Cole, September 10, 2008
I'll see you in glory, buddy.