When I drove up to First Presbyterian Church last
week, I, for a moment, wondered if a wedding was ending. By the
side-door stood a large group of sharply-dressed people in their 20s
and early 30s; from my brief view through my windshield, I imagined
they were waiting to cheer the newlyweds to their car. It was in that
moment that I forgot that the person whose funeral I was attending
would draw that kind of a crowd: his peer group.
Cannon
Harmon was a high school classmate of mine though we did not know one
another beyond names and faces. I wouldn’t have attended his funeral
had we not shared a friend these many years. In that way, I was
mourning her loss, and the loss felt by his friends and family more
than Cannon himself. Funerals are, ultimately, for the living.
The
minister spoke briefly of Cannon, but at greater length she spoke of
the mourning process itself, of the strength the survivors have shown
by struggling through their first five days without him and the
validity – and necessity – of the tears, confusion and anger that
inevitably accompany the death of a person who has not yet reached his
30th birthday.
The minister’s
words, the bravery and honesty of the friends who delivered loving
eulogies, the primal wail of the bagpipe that began and ended the
service, the pews filled with people who likely feel closer to their
college selves than their adult selves, the voluminous, imposing space
that is First Presbyterian: All of these elements worked in tandem,
giving mourners a space in which there was little to do but grieve.
I
suppose in some ways, that is the point of a funeral, a time apart from
our daily lives in which we are expected to embrace our sorrow, as
though our complex emotions are stored in a sponge that can be wrung
dry if only squeezed hard enough.
In
Judaism, there are set stages for mourners to work through, a year-long
process that ends, not with letting go of our loved one, but with
moving on, re-embracing life. It starts with shiva, an
intensive week of mourning. As the year progresses, mourners slowly
re-enter life and, hopefully, replace much of the sadness with the
joyful memories of that person. And, because we never stop loving the
people we have lost, it is also part of Jewish tradition to commemorate
the anniversary of the death, the yartzeit, by
lighting a candle that burns for 24 hours and, often, attending
synagogue and giving a charitable donation in the person’s honor. I’ve
always been comforted by the idea of encouraged mourning with a finite
time span; still, I can’t help but wonder if in a death marked by youth
and too many unanswered questions, a meager year of mourning is too
hasty.
The many people who signed the guest book attached to the News & Record obituary
spoke of Cannon’s kindness and caring, his many talents and his love of
life. I wish that the funeral could have somehow drained their sorrow
but the truth is it is just the beginning, an invitation to experience
the emotions his death has evoked in so many people. In whatever way he
is mourned, his will likely not be a death easy to reconcile. It seems,
however, that when it comes to Cannon, Alfred Lord Tennyson’s words
hold particularly true: “’Tis better to have loved and lost/Than never
to have loved at all.”
My deepest condolences to all of you.
This column was originally published in the News & Record on May 16, 2007.
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