Mortal, after all

A week ago I led a memorial service, a celebration of life, for a two-day old. It was excruciating, as you might imagine. It was also stunning and beautiful, as you might not imagine. Pain was real and evident, but more present was the love that surrounded these two parents and these three grandparents.

That service came on the tail of four other deaths in our congregation, all women in their nineties. Those deaths were sad, but not unexpected and not tragic. My colleague’s husband finally succumbed to the cancer he fought bravely and vehemently. That was awful, too.

A longtime friend of mine—would I call him a friend?—lost his battle with ALS. We went to junior high and high school and college together, but we didn’t run in the same circles and we never really hung out, except for long drives across Texas to out-of-town debate tournaments. Still, his death has hit me hard. Maybe I’m facing my own mortality. Maybe I’m owning up to the fact that we are mortal, after all.