Roses

I've just come home from our third funeral since November.  If you ask me, that's too many.  This one was for my sister-in-law's father, who was K's mentor and our very close friend for the past four years.  He died of pancreatic cancer, something he was only diagnosed with when we learned my SIL was pregnant for the second time.  My niece was born Wednesday.  Our friend died Saturday.  There were a lot of tears, but apparently I bought waterproof mascara without meaning to, so props to me.  I feel so incredibly lucky that my mom's breast cancer looks by all accounts to be the "best" kind of cancer you could hope for.  I feel heartbroken for our friend's wife who only had five years with him.  I don't know what I'd do if it were I giving a eulogy at my husband's funeral after so short a time; I don't think I could do it.  But I guess no time will ever be enough, whether five years or fifty-five.

All three of the men who've died since November were Jewish, but this was the first funeral of the three with a more elaborate coffin (instead of simple, unvarnished wood), a brief viewing (instead of a totally closed), and flowers on top of the closed casket.  It was a breathtaking burst of white lilies, white stock, and creamy, full roses.  The rabbi related a story which I found just lovely:

Two children found a beautiful garden full to overflowing with rosebushes.  The two children ran about and played as their mother watched them.  After a time, one of the children came running out, clinging to his mother and sobbing.  "What's wrong?" asked the mother.  The child replied, "This garden is full of beautiful rosebushes, but the bushes also have thorns, and they scratch and prick and hurt.  This is an awful place to be."  After a time, the second child came running out, laughing and joyful.  "What makes you so happy?" asked the mother.  The second child replied, "This garden is full of thorn bushes, sure, but on top of the bushes are the most beautiful roses.  This is a wonderful place to be."

It doesn't take a theologian or a master of metaphor to know that this life is that garden.  And it doesn't take god, I don't think, to appreciate striving to be that second child.  Our friend was very decidedly the second child in that story.  We'll miss him.   A lot.