Blogging toward Good Friday: Collective trauma

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I’ve only seen three dead bodies in my life. The first was when I was 12 years old and my grandfather died at age 69. It was the first time I ever saw my father cry. At the funeral home, my sister was brave enough to reach out and touch my grandfather’s hand as it rested on his torso. Back in our seats, I asked her what his skin felt like. “Plastic,” she said.

The second was 16 years later while I was in seminary. It was my first week as a student chaplain in a retirement community. Ruth was 97, and she loved to bowl. She died of a stroke, just two hours after I visited her. She sat in the same easy chair, with her head tilted to the side—as if she were merely taking a nap and all I had to do was touch her shoulder to wake her up. But she wouldn’t.