a time to love, a time to kill... do everything, turn, turn, turn...
...that song always reminds me of brandon. we used to be total dorks to that song when we had to sing it in music class, all those years ago.
I've been thinking about life a lot lately... mostly because so many people have lost theirs.
the funeral for al today was lovely. it was mostly his family present, but there were some residents there, too. some I had never even seen before. there was an entire row of people in wheelchairs, and I wondered if they just did that sort of thing every day, as if it was a daily errand... that is, going to funeral masses. in a place like the mount, death could come at any time, and it seems like every weekend there are funeral masses lined up. it made me think, wow... how can they do it? is there really a point in which people get used to death, as if it's routine?
well, of course it's routine. people die every day, from slews of different causes. but what if people you knew personally died all the time? that's one of the scariest things about getting old. would I want to be the last one left, or one of them? or would I want to go earlier on to avoid that pain, but bring pain to others by doing so?
fact of the matter is, you don't get to choose when you die. you can only help prolong your life by taking care of yourself and making good decisions. god is the only one who can decide when is the time for you to go.
I'm very sad and brokenhearted to hear about jamie and alyssa's friend sarah passing on. I didn't know her, but it destroys me to know that someone so young had to leave before her life really got the chance to take off. if she had cancer, though, then I'm trusting god that he's promising to take care of her. after all, he wouldn't take her to be with him if he didn't intend to give her peace in her afterlife.
it's been 5 years since nana died, and death has basically left me alone since then. granted, my cat sumi was put to sleep that same summer, and I had another cat get put down, too. however, coming to be almost 20 years of age, I've been pretty fortunate. I have 3 of my grandparents still with me. I may be an adult now, but what if this lack of death in my life has rendered me vulnerable to future deaths? will I be able to handle it like an adult, since I never experienced much of it in my childhood or adolescence?
I didn't get as emotional at the service as I thought I would. I stacked up a lot of tissues in my purse, but managed to keep my eyes from overflowing.
there was a picture of al at the altar, and a small table at the chapel door with a picture of al and his wife dorothy, surrounded by some of al's most cherished belongings. looking at his photo just made me realize how much I truly do miss him.
the part that really struck me, though, happened early on in the mass.
the congregation turned in prayer to face al's family entering the chapel, walking towards the altar with a small golden container in his daughter theresa's hands.
it was an urn.
al had been cremated.
I didn't know what would have been harder to see... the remains of al, powdered down and with the characteristics of mount saint helens' ash, or his lifeless body lying motionless in a casket, his delicate, wrinkled hands folded lovingly over his chest. but what I got was the urn. all that I knew to be al was suddenly being carried past me in a golden cup, lid secured tightly in place, the soul and now also the body nothing but pure memory.
when I saw it at first, I felt the earth slip out from underneath me. my heart just ceased to beat. I had never even imagined him being cremated. I thought that the funeral would help ease me into the idea that he was gone for good, but seeing that urn was just too hard of an impact. death is final, but having never seen someone's ashes before, it struck me just how permanent it was. it made me question reincarnation, even though the point is for the soul to be reborn, and not the body.
the urn was placed on the tiny table hosting al's picture at the altar, and I stared at it for most of the mass. I couldn't believe that the old man I hugged and pushed in his wheelchair was encased inside that little vase-looking object. the hand I shook, the smile that could fill a room, the glimmer of the eyes... all inside and compact enough to fit on a table no larger than a bedside nightstand. the realization of it all was almost too much for me, and temporarily, I felt faint in my black clothes and struggled to stay on my feet when the priest instructed us to stand.
a woman in a wheelchair seated next to my pew was pushed in by her nurse, and I immediately worried about her seeing me cry. she studied the prayer card with al's name printed on it and said aloud, "oh... somebody must have died."
I wanted to turn to her and put her in her place. I was about to say, "he was my friend," but I felt my eyes begin to well just from the thought, and feared what might have come from actually vocalizing it.
I felt angry, at first, and wanted to say, why are you even here? obviously, you didn't know him... and you don't even know this is a funeral mass... and you don't belong here, and leave me alone. but I knew that was just my grief making me feel that, and I told myself it was no way to think in the church.
the woman said she had trouble seeing that far away. I volunteered to go push her to a pew closer towards the front, partly out of obligation as a worker there, and partly out of just wanting to get rid of her.
at the end of the service, she turned around, as if expecting me to come help her again. part of me felt relieved to have the service be over, the other part longed to stay and have my time. however, I went over to this woman, and with great patience, pushed her over to the elevators. along the way, she said, "I'm so glad you're helping me. thank you, thank you. mercy. mercy." she repeated it as if it were some sort of mantra and I felt somewhat unsettled. I wanted to be alone, and here I was carting this woman around.
but, I'll remember that woman whenever I think of that service. I don't truly know why.
I thought about it a little, and having no clear answer, gave up on it. but it's still riding my mind. how do I look into that? I think it means something, I just don't know what. and, truthfully, I'm too exhausted to reflect on that right now.
well. I'm very glad I went today, and I actually feel a little better. it still hurts, but I feel more comforted about his death now. he's with his wife, and he's safe, and no longer suffering. instead of grieving, I'm trying to celebrate that fact.
In Loving Memory of
Albert Joseph Rambosek
1913-2003
"May the angels lead you into Paradise, may the Martyrs receive you at your coming, and take you to Jerusalem, the holy city. May the choirs of the Angels receive you, and may you with the once poor Lazarus, have rest everlasting. Amen."
(Roman Ritual)
"May the Souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen."
I've been thinking about life a lot lately... mostly because so many people have lost theirs.
the funeral for al today was lovely. it was mostly his family present, but there were some residents there, too. some I had never even seen before. there was an entire row of people in wheelchairs, and I wondered if they just did that sort of thing every day, as if it was a daily errand... that is, going to funeral masses. in a place like the mount, death could come at any time, and it seems like every weekend there are funeral masses lined up. it made me think, wow... how can they do it? is there really a point in which people get used to death, as if it's routine?
well, of course it's routine. people die every day, from slews of different causes. but what if people you knew personally died all the time? that's one of the scariest things about getting old. would I want to be the last one left, or one of them? or would I want to go earlier on to avoid that pain, but bring pain to others by doing so?
fact of the matter is, you don't get to choose when you die. you can only help prolong your life by taking care of yourself and making good decisions. god is the only one who can decide when is the time for you to go.
I'm very sad and brokenhearted to hear about jamie and alyssa's friend sarah passing on. I didn't know her, but it destroys me to know that someone so young had to leave before her life really got the chance to take off. if she had cancer, though, then I'm trusting god that he's promising to take care of her. after all, he wouldn't take her to be with him if he didn't intend to give her peace in her afterlife.
it's been 5 years since nana died, and death has basically left me alone since then. granted, my cat sumi was put to sleep that same summer, and I had another cat get put down, too. however, coming to be almost 20 years of age, I've been pretty fortunate. I have 3 of my grandparents still with me. I may be an adult now, but what if this lack of death in my life has rendered me vulnerable to future deaths? will I be able to handle it like an adult, since I never experienced much of it in my childhood or adolescence?
I didn't get as emotional at the service as I thought I would. I stacked up a lot of tissues in my purse, but managed to keep my eyes from overflowing.
there was a picture of al at the altar, and a small table at the chapel door with a picture of al and his wife dorothy, surrounded by some of al's most cherished belongings. looking at his photo just made me realize how much I truly do miss him.
the part that really struck me, though, happened early on in the mass.
the congregation turned in prayer to face al's family entering the chapel, walking towards the altar with a small golden container in his daughter theresa's hands.
it was an urn.
al had been cremated.
I didn't know what would have been harder to see... the remains of al, powdered down and with the characteristics of mount saint helens' ash, or his lifeless body lying motionless in a casket, his delicate, wrinkled hands folded lovingly over his chest. but what I got was the urn. all that I knew to be al was suddenly being carried past me in a golden cup, lid secured tightly in place, the soul and now also the body nothing but pure memory.
when I saw it at first, I felt the earth slip out from underneath me. my heart just ceased to beat. I had never even imagined him being cremated. I thought that the funeral would help ease me into the idea that he was gone for good, but seeing that urn was just too hard of an impact. death is final, but having never seen someone's ashes before, it struck me just how permanent it was. it made me question reincarnation, even though the point is for the soul to be reborn, and not the body.
the urn was placed on the tiny table hosting al's picture at the altar, and I stared at it for most of the mass. I couldn't believe that the old man I hugged and pushed in his wheelchair was encased inside that little vase-looking object. the hand I shook, the smile that could fill a room, the glimmer of the eyes... all inside and compact enough to fit on a table no larger than a bedside nightstand. the realization of it all was almost too much for me, and temporarily, I felt faint in my black clothes and struggled to stay on my feet when the priest instructed us to stand.
a woman in a wheelchair seated next to my pew was pushed in by her nurse, and I immediately worried about her seeing me cry. she studied the prayer card with al's name printed on it and said aloud, "oh... somebody must have died."
I wanted to turn to her and put her in her place. I was about to say, "he was my friend," but I felt my eyes begin to well just from the thought, and feared what might have come from actually vocalizing it.
I felt angry, at first, and wanted to say, why are you even here? obviously, you didn't know him... and you don't even know this is a funeral mass... and you don't belong here, and leave me alone. but I knew that was just my grief making me feel that, and I told myself it was no way to think in the church.
the woman said she had trouble seeing that far away. I volunteered to go push her to a pew closer towards the front, partly out of obligation as a worker there, and partly out of just wanting to get rid of her.
at the end of the service, she turned around, as if expecting me to come help her again. part of me felt relieved to have the service be over, the other part longed to stay and have my time. however, I went over to this woman, and with great patience, pushed her over to the elevators. along the way, she said, "I'm so glad you're helping me. thank you, thank you. mercy. mercy." she repeated it as if it were some sort of mantra and I felt somewhat unsettled. I wanted to be alone, and here I was carting this woman around.
but, I'll remember that woman whenever I think of that service. I don't truly know why.
I thought about it a little, and having no clear answer, gave up on it. but it's still riding my mind. how do I look into that? I think it means something, I just don't know what. and, truthfully, I'm too exhausted to reflect on that right now.
well. I'm very glad I went today, and I actually feel a little better. it still hurts, but I feel more comforted about his death now. he's with his wife, and he's safe, and no longer suffering. instead of grieving, I'm trying to celebrate that fact.
In Loving Memory of
Albert Joseph Rambosek
1913-2003
"May the angels lead you into Paradise, may the Martyrs receive you at your coming, and take you to Jerusalem, the holy city. May the choirs of the Angels receive you, and may you with the once poor Lazarus, have rest everlasting. Amen."
(Roman Ritual)
"May the Souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen."