There are times that I absolutely despise Facebook.  It’s not the random sharing of far more information than I often want and definitely do not need that is so very bothersome.  It’s the unpleasant surprises that you innocently scroll into while wading through untold shares of political positions, cute kitty pictures, and other such stuff.  Last night was one of those times.

I never really knew Hope Shull or her husband, Don, although I had the pleasure of visiting with them at least once, but my children did.  She was the librarian at Freed-Hardeman University and he a professor of language and literature.  It is to him that I will be forever grateful for he gave my son one of the greatest gifts imaginable—the desire to read and the need to learn.  I had struggled all through his childhood to instill in him both those attributes and had failed miserably.  Don Shull, however, succeeded where I could not.  By the mere size of his intellect, the knowledge he possessed, and the magnitude of his personality and classroom presence, he worked the miracle I could not.  And last night, while trolling the waters of Facebook, I find her picture from years before and a caption that implies the obvious followed by comment after comment about the inner beauty of a wonderful woman.  I can only hope that the passing of this remarkable woman does not break the spirit of her equally remarkable husband.  To quote my son-in-law, Dennis, “A kind soul and generous heart is gone, and has left the world a little poorer for its leaving.”

This sorrowful news followed closely on the heels of another, more gruesome discovery only a few blocks from the funeral home in Savannah—the body of a woman known by many and loved by those fortunate enough to call her a friend—in an area of our small town where everyone should feel safe.  The “M” word was attached to her death and for hours on end, flashing blue lights and yards of police tape called loudly to everyone passing by, announcing to all the world that something horrific had happened, something that would shake our community and give rise to questions about humanity and the degradation thereof.  Her friends will mourn her loss, her family will ask why, and we are all left to wonder and grieve.

All of this so closely followed the passing of 17 year old Aaron, the Amazing. Honestly, as I sat thinking about everything that was chaotically stirring around me, I had trouble bringing his last name to mind.  All over town he was known simply as “Aaron, the Amazing”, and the entire community bonded together to form “Team Aaron” in support of his courageous fight against cancer.  But the odds were ultimately against him and there came a time when acceptance was the better part of valor.  Not surrender … acceptance.  The two are quite different.  When we were called at his death, a silence enveloped the funeral home—a silence born of the knowledge that an amazing human being in the form of Aaron Bell would no longer physically walk with us, but that he would always be here, for courage that awesome does not die.

There are days and times and hours when it is simply too much.  Too much death, too much grief, too much to bear.  We ache for the families, we weep for ourselves, we hope for better times tomorrow, knowing that we will be required to move ahead while others will have the opportunity and the permission and the time to grieve.  Never rush them or try to take away their pain.  It is as much a part of life as the pain that comes at birth but instead of a living, breathing child, we are left to hold the memories.

This post was written by Lisa Thomas, manager of Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah.

The post Today appeared first on Shackelford Funeral Directors | Blog.