It is better to be seen than viewed . . .

As I noted yesterday, we had the opportunity to visit a funeral home earlier in the week. The experience still leaves me some unsettled. You, therefore, are the unwitting recipient of my continued reflections on death.

Death is something of a mystery that we will all eventually face. In one way or another, I expect that most of us have already had some contact with death. As a child growing up on a ranch, I often saw it firsthand - cattle die, horses die, favorite pets die, seventh grade classmates die, grandparents die. This is not to say that death was some sort of constant in my life. It was, however, common.

Shortly before I left home to enter the minor seminary a teenager from my area was killed in an ATV accident. The death was grisly, and while I will spare you the details, it is important to know that the entire community was devastated. At the funeral Mass, I recall the priest offering the parents two options in response to the death. The first was bitterness. They could spend the remainder of their lives blaming God, each other, their son, the world for their grief. They could use their son as an excuse to become angry, and to eventually whither away into old age with only their grief for comfort. The other was to allow the grief to transform them. In their love for their dead child, they could try to turn out of themselves,and direct that love toward another. In doing so, they would begin to find meaning in the death of their son.

I think the priest's observations were correct. I have seen parents follow both courses. I have heard the stories of concentration camp survivors who have followed both courses. Redemption or revenge? Death or resurrection?

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How does on avoid becoming immune to the grief of others? This was my question as we were led on a tour of the mortuary. We stopped in the garage, and "oo"ed and "aw"ed at the hearses and limousines used to transport the mourner and mournee from the place of the funeral to the grave. From there, we were allowed to look through the doors as bodies were prepared for burial. There were literally rows of bodies in various states of preparation. Directly in front of us were the new arrivals, wrapped in sterile plastic or bound up in body bags. These had recently come from the hospital. To the left were those who had been embalmed, but had not yet been dressed, or made up for the funeral. These were respectfully covered in a sheet from the neck down, with heads propped up on wooden braces. To the right were those receiving the finishing touches before being placed in a coffin. Behind us were coffins ready to make their ride to the churches. The experience was somewhat surreal; here were the remains of mothers, father, brothers, and sisters, and I felt no sorrow. They were nameless, and I had no connection to them. They were in a way, a medium upon which efficient men and women donned in white lab coats and latex gloves practiced their art. Near the end of our visit I asked our guide how he was able to avoid becoming immune to the sorrow of others when he saw it so often. He response makes sense. "Every family has a story to tell, and their grief is real. If you can listen to them, you will not become desensitized toward death."

You might get used to bodies, but you don't get used to death.

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Those of us witnessing all of this were tense, I think, and the atmosphere was ripe for dark humor to erupt. It found an outlet as the funeral director spoke to us and we leaned on whatever was available. The laughter occurred when the priest leading the class realized that he had propped himself against a box in which was a woman being sent to the crematorium. He was embarrassed. The laughter lightened the mood. But is that the right response? Should one experience a lightened mood when surrounded by the mortal remains of those others have loved? Is death a strictly sober affair?

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During my stint as a hospital chaplain, I visited a woman who was in the hospital for some reason or another. As we talked, she revealed that she had lost a son many years earlier. She spoke of him for several minutes, and as she spoke, her words gave way to tears. I apologized. I hadn't wanted to open an old wound, especially as she sat there in the hospital with her current troubles.

She smiled in her tears. "Oh no," she responded, "don't apologize. I love to talk about my son, but most people won't let me talk about him anymore because they are afraid of my tears. They don't want to make me cry. But I want to. I want to talk about him. I like to remember him. I cry because I still miss him, because I still love him. But I do want to talk about him."

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Death, you shall die in me; hell, you shall be destroyed by me.
-Holy Saturday, Vespers.