we ache with recognition

They say that death is just a part of living, and it is. It happens all the time.

And yet.

Death is often not a part of life at all. It’s death. Someone is gone with a last breath as if that is not absurd. Someone beloved and integral is now an echoing space where there was once a unique personality, a certain smile that said it all, a tender heart that helped. Gone.

I grew up in the heart of Minnesota, a country mouse surrounded by small town people, barns, trees, lakes. I left for twenty years of being a city mouse, and then returned. The city mouse and the country mouse don’t have to fight. I am both.

If you grew up here, you know. There is a love/dislike relationship for most of us. It’s obvious, no one but the bored love the small town talk, everyone knowing most everything about everyone. Gossip is often debilitating to people going through hard things, and people who don’t fit the mold.

And yet. The natural resources, the kindnesses, the beauty of the land, the magical parts of the small town feel…

We ache with recognition and comfort in this place. We are rooted in the waters and the spirits of generations. We are rooted in each other’s histories, intertwined. Even if we weren’t the very best of friends in our youngers years, our lives touched, our paths crossed again and again. We know one another in some mysterious way I can’t ever fully describe.

One of us died and then there we were, back together in person, looking in each other’s familiar eyes and seeing some parts of ourselves we don’t think much about anymore. Our child selves, our teen selves, our side by side since kindergarten relationships to one another. There is a wholeness to be felt in that. There are hours and hours of years and years of being together that we cannot even remember the details of anymore, but our souls do.

Being thrown back together in heartbreak and grief is a strange place to be. We lock eyes and know. I hate this. Wholeness is stolen with death; at least at its start, because we want Jeremy’s face there, too. We want to hug the man we are there to honor, but he’s gone. We want, we want, we want. Together.

Maybe when we gather, we start to redeem the damage a death can do. Not in an effort to ever forget and with recognitoin that the hurt never stops, but in achknowledging this death is tearing everything apart, especially in a mother and father’s hearts; a sister and brother’s fiber of being. Maybe there are small graces, even big ones, in the presence of the familiar people that witnessed the family’s love for so many years. I hope so.

Jeremy was the perfect mix of beautiful things to ground his siblings. He had a shyness that wasn’t awkward, but kind. He had the most dazzling smile with the most impressive dimples. He and his siblings made a trio that was a fixture over time, like the silos standing by the red and white barns out here. It makes no sense for him to be gone. It’s tragic and unfair and all of the words we use when someone abruptly leaves this earth; just leaves us standing there, astonished. It isn’t ever going to feel right to have this hole where he was, but maybe in our the roots like oaks; our connections, we bring a balm in the suffering. I hope so.

(My dear lifelong friend Tiffany spoke an incredibly difficult story at her brother’s funeral, maybe partially to relieve small town questions, but mostly to help others going through what Jeremy did. It was courageous and full of grace and you can find it here.) (Tiffany starts speaking at about 16 minutes in.)