the only one i know

gina

For the third time in three months, I was attending the funeral of a young parent from St. John. Matt’s was the first in this season of misery, and I felt like I was becoming the resident widow on call. Within a month we said good-bye to Tom Larkin, whose son was in Drew’s class. Having two fatherless boys in first grade left twenty other kids wondering if their daddy was next. Heaviness hung in the air at St. John. The repeated loss of young parents was affecting all ages within our church community. The loss of Cathy Spehn was another devastating blow.

Her visitation was held on a cold and dreary Friday evening. I planned to meet Colleen at the funeral home around six o’clock. We arrived early, knowing all too well what kind of crowd to expect.

“Are you okay?” Colleen asked as we walked through the front doors of Pixley Funeral Home.

“I don’t know. Just stay close.” My stomach felt tight, and I could feel the heat of my perspiration intensify. The customary funeral home scent of lilies filled the air, making me want to hold my breath. We walked past the sign-in podium and immediately recognized several of Matt’s high school friends who had consoled me in the exact same room just two months earlier. As the head shaking and words of disbelief were getting started, a man came alongside me.

“Are you Gina Kell?” I turned to meet his eyes and nodded. He hugged me tightly.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. For a moment I thought he was one of the high school friends, but quickly realized that it was Cathy’s husband, Michael.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” I regurgitated the same words that so many had expressed to me. Receiving those words meant the world, but speaking them felt trite and inadequate.

“Can I speak with you for just a minute?” he asked. The crowd of friends and family was growing, and they were all looking for some face time with Michael. This didn’t seem to matter. He was focused on me.

“Sure,” I replied, glancing at Colleen for reassurance. Her eyes followed us as we walked a few feet away from the crowd to a more private sitting area. Michael pulled together two upholstered chairs, and we sat closely facing each other to talk over the din of conversation that filled the room. He was composed, yet I recognized the pain in his eyes and in his posture.

“How are you holding up?” I asked, sounding like an idiot. “I’m sorry. That’s a stupid question. You’d think I’d know what to say.”

“I was about to ask you the same thing. I feel terrible doing this, but I need to know something.” Michael was sitting forward in his chair.

“What is it? Anything,” I replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

His words came haltingly, but not out of nervousness. It felt more like regard.

“Well, you’re ahead of me in this process. Tell me about your kids. How are they doing?” He leaned in to listen for my answer and quickly added, “Lie to me if you have to.”

“I don’t have to lie. They’re grieving, but they really are okay. We talk about Matt all the time, and we laugh and cry together, but they go on living the way kids do. Our faith, and being surrounded by -people who love us, makes it doable.”

We talked about the kids for a while. Our conversation was intense. At times Michael was overcome with emotion and filled with uncertainty and confusion. In many ways I saw myself more like him three years ago when the newness of Matt’s diagnosis was washing over me. Michael had no time to process Cathy’s illness, let alone her sudden, unexpected absence from their lives. I so much wanted to comfort him but I didn’t know how.

I became increasingly aware of the growing crowd around us. Hundreds had come to express condolences to the husband of the deceased, and he was spending an inordinate amount of time away from his post. Michael was keenly aware too, but unfazed.

“I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you’re here,” he said in a clear voice. “When I was getting ready to come here tonight, I wondered if you would show up. I hoped that you would. The day before Cath died, she talked about you. She told me I should call you.”

“Really?” I was shocked. I tried to comprehend how and why Cathy would speak of me on the last day of her life.

“Cath was like that. She thought of others. She had hours to live and she was thinking of your boys and who would teach them to play basketball. I’m a basketball coach at Lutheran Northwest. She told me to help your boys learn the game. There were just things that she knew. She thought we could help each other.”

“That’s unreal,” was all I could muster. I was humbled and grateful that he shared this with me. “I only met Cathy a -couple times, but she was like a ray of sunshine. I’ll never forget her smile and her genuine kindness.”

As I described the first time I met her, Michael handed me a memorial booklet that he created. The cover photo was a large closeup of Cathy, and three smaller photos with her children. Inside, there was an even more stunning photo of Cathy sitting on a boat, with one arm stretched back over the rails. With a radiant full smile, she was tilting her head back, her face being kissed by the sun. It was the perfect visual summary of my impression of her. She was a beauty.

My purpose for being at the funeral home became clear. I was there to listen, to console, and to simply be present in our shared experience. I received far more than I gave that night. Through our mutual grief we found empathy in one another. It was like a parachute opening during a freefall. I stared at the memorial booklet, and we sat silently in the stuffy, crowded room for what seemed like more than a minute until Michael broke the silence.

“Lots of -people here tonight,” he said, looking around the room.

I nodded.

“Friends and family from forty years of life.” Michael turned toward me and looked me straight in the eyes. “You and I just met, but you’re the only one I know here tonight.”

I half-smiled at the stranger sitting across from me and understood him completely. “I know,” I replied. I was relaxed in my chair but quickly sat up straight, realizing that our time together was coming to an end. He had responsibilities and I needed to reconnect with Colleen.

As we said our good-byes, Michael introduced me to his Uncle Mel, who was holding a plate of food.

“This is Gina Kell, who I was telling you about.”

Mel shook my hand, offered his condolences, and immediately handed Michael the plate. Michael winced at the sight of it and turned to greet an old friend. From a distance, I watched Mel offer him the food several times, insisting that he eat. Michael finally grabbed a cookie, took a bite, and threw it back on the plate, making a face like he had just eaten sand.

It’s as if everyone becomes an Italian grandmother around the bereaved. “Eat! Eat! Mangia!” It’s been my experience that the grief-stricken don’t want to eat, especially in the middle of a crowded funeral home. In the throes of grief it’s hard enough to swallow your own saliva, let alone choke down a turkey sandwich. But feeding the bereaved becomes a mission for helpless onlookers who don’t know what else to do.

My protective instincts kicked in and I couldn’t help myself. When Michael was at a safe distance, I gently approached Mel.

“I know you want Michael to eat, but I don’t think he will,” I said softly.

“He needs his strength,” Mel replied.

“I understand your concern, but right now he’s getting it from another source. You just need to be here when he finally says, ‘I’m hungry.’ ” Mel knew that I was speaking from experience and agreed to let it go. He proceeded to fill me in on the cast of characters around the room. We went on to discuss responses to grief, the differences between men and women, and the best way to help Michael through the next year. I felt like I was talking with a dear old friend. Mel was incredibly insightful and thoughtful.

Colleen found me. “So much for just ‘staying close,’ ” she said.

It was time to walk into the room where Cathy’s body lay in precisely the same place Matt had been two months earlier. Déjà vu. Cathy’s father, Larry, was standing in my spot alongside the casket greeting a line of -people. He appeared a broken man, thin in stature and weary from the nightmare he was living.

While waiting in line, we approached the open casket. I observed Cathy’s hands. They were delicate. I tried to avoid looking at her face, perhaps because I knew that I wouldn’t be looking at Cathy. I noticed the beautiful cross necklace she was wearing. I bowed my head to pray for Michael and the children.

When we finally reached Larry, we shared tears and sorrowful hugs.

He was a proper and gentle man who considered others before himself. He thanked us for coming and said, “I know this must be difficult for you.”

I tried to hold it together, but I began to cry again. We reminisced briefly and shook our heads at the senselessness of it all, reminding each other that ultimately the Lord is in control. We sought the silver lining that Matt and Cathy were together in heaven, mostly because it felt like the only right thing to say.

It took another twenty minutes before we made our way through the throng of visitors toward the door. Colleen and I walked out into the bitter March night and headed to our cars. We planned to meet Mike for dinner at a nearby restaurant.

“You want to just ride with me?” she asked.

“Yeah, I think so.” I needed to process everything that had happened. “I might want a second glass of wine tonight.”

“That was crazy. What just happened in there with Michael Spehn?”

“You saw that, huh?”

“Everyone saw that. You two were in deep conversation for twenty minutes. I thought the funeral director was going to lose his mind! He wanted Michael to greet guests, but he knew better than to interrupt you two.”

“I don’t know what just happened. I felt like I’ve known him all my life.”

She didn’t press. For possibly the first time since I’ve known Colleen, we drove to the restaurant in complete silence.