He walked into the office, sure in his mission but uncertain as to how he should proceed. When we sat down he began to share his story . . . how his wife had struggled for years with health problems . . . how she had beaten cancer once but having had it meant no one would insure her . . . how it had taken her a year to recover from a reaction to some medication and how things seemed to be improving . . . until the new cancer diagnosis caught them by surprise . . . how they had not found it soon enough . . . how he needed to know what he could do and how he could afford it.

We talked about what he wanted. It should be simple but something that would honor her life.  They had been married for almost 44 years and had been through so much together.  They had never had any children but she had a niece and a nephew that she loved as her own. This would be the last thing he could do for her; he just hoped he had long enough to financially prepare.  And he tried but time was not on his side.  When Hope gave way to Death he had made progress, just not as much as he had planned.

He asked for a graveside service and some time for the family to gather and friends to come. The niece and nephew stayed close by and a few people wandered in and out of the room . . . a very few.  When I stepped in to speak with him a woman stood before me, bent over the register book, signing her name and writing a note on one of the dividing pages.  I could tell she was crying as she did and when she moved away I thought about signing it, too, but I didn’t.  I wish now that I had.  He came around the partition and recognition flashed across his face when he saw me.  I asked how he was and he noted that some friends he’d expected hadn’t been by, but that was all right.  It was a Sunday, and I told him it was early in the afternoon and they might still be in church.  He smiled, knowing his friends better than I did, and replied “Or still asleep.”  We both decided we might be the same way, if we had our druthers.  He moved away and I returned to work.

When the hearse reached the cemetery with the family close behind, they parked and prepared to carry her to her final resting place. He looked at the funeral directors and told them they’d decided to just go ahead with the burial.  No words would be spoken, no prayers uttered, no music played.  Only four of them had made the brief drive to the cemetery and they had all said their good-byes before they left the building.  So under a clear blue sky, in the sweltering heat, the four people who loved her most in this life watched as her body was slowly lowered into the earth.

From that first day in our office until the last goodbye, this man and his loss haunted me. Later I asked him if I might share some of his story.  I told him where it would be and that I would never mention his name and he never hesitated.  “Yes ma’am.  That’ll be fine.  Whatever you want to do.”  I really don’t know why I feel compelled to give you a glimpse into this time in his life, but compelled does not even begin to describe the need.  Perhaps it’s because I could see the love and sorrow in his eyes.  Perhaps because I could hear the resignation in his voice when he first came to us and could see the forgiveness he had for those who let him down when he had really counted on them.  Or perhaps because we all need to understand how powerful our presence—or our absence—can be when Death comes to call.

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