Today my Grandpa Charlie would have been 100 years old. He passed away the summer between my freshman and sophomore years of college, and it was the first time I really faced the death of someone close to me. I remember we got the news while we were at Lake Geneva, and my first impulse was to find a quiet place to think on my own. I went out to the end of a pier and watched the waves while I thought and probably prayed.
What did I think about life after death? Would I see my grandfather again? I wasn't sure, but I had been taught that I would, and it was a comforting thing to hope for. I wished faith came more easily for me.
Why not believe?
Today I attended the funeral for Carly, a beautiful 21-year-old neighbor of ours. It is a comforting thought--especially for her family--that after such a short but brilliant life, she would be reunited with her father, who doted on her adoringly before he preceded her in death.
Carly's parents adopted her from Romania when she was six months old. During the service, a family friend shared the story of their journey, including a description of the plight of children raised in orphanages there. She told how children would be sent out to fend for themselves on the streets with virtually nothing when they turned 15.
My thoughts turned to an inmate I met with at the jail earlier in the day. She's just 18, her father is in prison, her mother is an addict. On Monday she'll be sent out to fend for herself on the streets with virtually nothing. We spent time going over some of her options, and I wrote down a few names of people she could contact to help her get on her feet.
By some sort of cosmic coincidence, or perhaps an answer of reassurance to my silent pleading, one of the names I had written down for her was the name of the man who gave the closing prayer at Carly's funeral. Worlds can collide in the oddest ways. I shook his hand before he left and told him that I needed to talk with him on Monday about someone to look out for.
Why not believe?
1 comment:
Amen.
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