In Threes

You might want to skip this one, its long its sad. I’m writing it to work through my own grief. I’m sure posting about guns, dogs, my thoughts on fixing the world and other fun stuff will resume in a few days.

“Where's Res?”
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Hiding his head in the sand, or work as the case happens to be. I’ve been putting off this blog entry because its’s on my mind but I’m struggling with dealing with it. I’ve written and rewritten it in my head several times, I’ve thought about doing it poetically, then factually, or as a rant. But I’m not angry, the facts suck and there is no poetry to express the death of a baby. Jamie said that best; “Fucken hell Res”, indeed. My niece’s funeral hit me much harder than I expected. Harder than any other funeral I’ve been to.

The first time I saw Cadee was at the front of the church in her coffin. I touched her doll like, cold hand and I lost it. A man isn’t supposed to cry, it goes against his nature. Other things defile nature far worse; a father who out lives his children and a mother forced to burry her baby.

77 days is what she had on this earth. The church was filled to capacity; they even ran out of room in the registry for people to sign. Not a bad turn out for a gray snow and sleet filled Monday in Detroit. Friends of more than 50 years came out to morn with our family, many like me had to fly in, others came as best they could, and one unable because of age to drive took Greyhound.

I had to meet a freighter at the docks to pick up a family member. I missed the “family viewing” time. The line of people waiting to view Cadee was winding out the back door of the church. They cut me to the front of the line.

The flower arrangements were very beautiful. Most had flowers with unopened buds in them, one was entirely flower buds that hadn’t yet bloomed, cut as they were they never will. Poetic, pathetic, and painful as hell to think about. The casket was alabaster shaped so that it reminded you of a bassinet. The arrangement behind it was little white flowers in a field of green fern. They’re called “baby's breath”.

Every time I looked at the arrangement of “baby’s breath” I wondered if I could work a swap with God, my breath for Cadee’s.

That’s when I walked up touched her hand and lost it in front of more than 300 people. I walked off towards the side of the church and stopped alone unable to move, tears streaming down my face.

There’s this great gal that we know, she’s about 102 pounds soaking wet. Several years ago she was nearly paralyzed in a horse accident, she’s kind of frail looking now with her gray (not that I would tell her) hairs showing. She just about knocked over a black man the size of a linebacker (he’s another great friend and a big reason I’m still a Christian) to get to me. Throwing her arms around me she assured me that it was OK. Within minutes other folks, some I hadn’t seen or talked to in more than 15 years came rushing to me.

Grown men, shop rats, bikers, longshoremen, rail hands, accountants, doctors’ lawyers, women, wives and mothers saw our grief. They could not bear to see us suffering it alone. They surrounded us and wept openly for us. A young women and friend of my sister had a baby just a few days after Cadee was born. She came up behind us in the pew we were sitting in. The young mom pressed her baby into my sister’s arms: “when you need a baby to hold, you can have mine, anytime”.

This is what it means to be a Christian, this is what the church looks like at its best. The ladies from over two dozen Detroit area churches worked out a schedule to help my sister out for the next several months.

My brother in law and sis picked the songs they wanted for the funeral, I only remember the last part of the last one.

“God, you give and take away”
“you give and take away”
“you give and take away”
“you give and take away”

“Yet I will teach my heart to say…”
“Blessed be the name”
“Blessed be the name”
“Blessed be the name of the Lord”

They say bad things come in threes. Last Monday I buried my niece, on Saturday we buried a friends mother, today another friend buried his father.

I haven’t been posting. I’ve been contemplating. I didn’t want to burden my friends (which I consider ya’ll) with long grief filled musings on death and other cheery topics when you should be preparing for Christmas and enjoying your families and blessings.