From the Front of a Funeral

This past Saturday I attended a funeral. I sat in the front of a room full of strangers and played broken hymns for those with the burden of a loss greater than I can imagine. The hymns were not broken poetically. Chords clashed and fourths fell on thirds, bells pointed towards the ground and flats were forgotten. A marching band would not usually play at a baptist funeral, but on Saturday, we did. We played at the funeral of a former bandmate and I cried. I cried a lot.

I didn't know Aaron Bennett very well, he was a friendly face in the halls and he was one of the cool kids in band, he was light-hearted, and his death hit me like a bat. 

When I arrived, a few of my bandmates were already waiting outside. We waited for our instructor, who arrived a few minutes later, and who told us it was okay to head on in. We walked in and were directed to our section. The church was plain, consisting of only pews, a few modest windows, and an elevated area in the front, where speeches would be given, and where we would play. I sat down, prepared my instrument, and watched as people trickled in. We were in the front of the church facing the family members and friends who were mourning. I could not see Aaron, only the faces of those who did. 

I think about death often, about mine, about the deaths of those I love, not in a morbid way but as a reminder of our temporary nature. I don't fear death, I accept it with the seriousness it deserves, and hope I am prepared to face my own mortality. With this, I walked in feeling prepared to face the cruel reality of Aaron's death, and I was. Death is natural and it will come. I hope Aaron knew that, and I hope that in whatever way he exists, whether that be through a god or otherwise, that Aaron is at peace now. Fortunately, this is not what came. Instead, I was bombarded by realities I had never accounted for. Instead, I was humbled by the complexities that I live amongst. I was not prepared. I was not prepared for the overwhelming sensations of grief and hurt thrust upon me by the pleading screams of a mournful mother or a lost friend. I was not prepared to be thanked. I was not prepared to watch grown men cry or to watch babies be baffled by what they could not understand but I did. I was not prepared to contemplate the families of the 3,000 dead due to gun violence in Chicago over the past year and I pondered. I was not prepared for a room full of people lending their hurt, but I graciously accepted.

I cried when Nigel cried. 

I cried when the gentleman in the nice gray suit cried, when he made a mark in my memory forever, with his agony, with his contorted face, with his nice gray suit.

I cried when Aaron's mother was carried, when she literally could no longer stand, when she weeped and screamed quietly, and when I imagined my mother. 

I cried and I reminded myself how much I love you all, how much I love everyone, and how much pain a bullet can really inflict. 

I cried and I cried, and then I smiled, and then I cried.

Remember what it looks like from the front of a funeral, and remember that we are all in this together.