Early in the week I received a text from our neighbor with details about the funeral. It would be that Thursday. Handsome and I both wanted to attend, but when that morning rolled around it was clear he could not. He was tethered hopelessly to his office.

   The man’s services were held at a large, modern funeral home just about twenty-five minutes from the farm. The parking lot was filled beyond capacity, cars, trucks, and motorcycles parked in concentric curves, filling not only every designated space but also every square foot of concrete, designated or not. I barely found room for mine. People were filing into the building quickly and in large numbers. Holding hands, clapping each other’s shoulders, smiling weakly. The sun was fiercely bright that day. Warm and windy, one of the early spring days we had all been celebrating.

   Inside the building several hundred people were pacing around, finding their seats and maybe reuniting with friends or loved ones the way people do at funerals and weddings. I was offered the last open seat in an annex room with a clear view to the podium and flowers. There was no casket.

   The officiant of the service was a brother of the deceased. He was tall and solid, had a strong local accent that dressed his lumbering voice perfectly. He reminded me a little of Sam Elliott and was the sort of man who deserved the word gentleman, not guy. He led us in prayer and read scriptures with so much passion, you might think he had just discovered their truth and beauty that very day! He was urgently pressing in our hearts a message of God’s love, hope for the mansions of heaven, and comfort. Deep comfort.

   As is customary with such personal services, we got to hear some of the man’s favorite songs from his life. They played Dust in the Wind, Stairway to Heaven, and Whiskey Lullaby. The music piped in crystal clear, especially the Led Zeppelin guitar notes I remember, and every single lyric fell on the crowd like a deliberate weight. They pressed tears out of all our hearts. I wondered about Whiskey Lullaby, wondered if the family was still worried about alcohol having played a part in the wreck. What a burden, what a warning.

   Usually a funeral service is a time to say goodbye. This service, for me, was a chance to become acquainted with the man we met under such awful circumstances. As it progressed, I was increasingly frustrated that my husband couldn’t attend. He was the one who had stayed there that night in the rain. He had the most grief to release.

   I saw this man come to life in a room filled to the brim with his loved ones. Just a few days before that, the most I had seen was his white cotton t-shirt and belted jeans. Now I saw his face, smiling. Eyes literally twinkling. I saw him as a suntanned little boy in mid-century Oklahoma, often barefoot, always surrounded by his brothers and a sister. I saw him as a good looking high school football player. Then as a young adult with a magnificent white man’s Afro! When photos of that hair era slid onscreen, the room warmed with laughter. So much laughter! His most recent years seemed to be spent holding babies who were presumably his grand babies. I got to see his barrel chest draped with sleeping infants. He was always smiling.

    A girl not much younger than my own fourteen year old baby spoke at the microphone. She read her own remarks from two handwritten pages. Her dark hair was just growing back in from chemotherapy. She had a voice as soft and muted as talcum powder, and it faltered into tears at almost every sentence. Though the congregation could barely decipher her quiet words, we all cried along with her. The emotion was palpable. She barely seemed strong enough to hold the microphone and doubled over in sobs at least twice. Even as a perfect stranger I ached with this beautiful little girl, everybody did. 


   When she finished reading, the man’s brother wiped his own tears and took both her pages and the microphone then read every sentence again. His booming, affectionate voice delivered what she was trying to tell us. That we should trust God’s plans, even when they hurt. That we should be thankful for each other and what we have. That we can do amazing things. There was much more, and I hope the family kept her written pages. I wished I could be taking notes myself. So beautiful. If the congregation was weeping a moment ago, now there was widespread sobbing. From the mouths of babes, is all I could think.


   The services continued with more wonderfully loving, personal speakers. Every person held this man in such genuine affection, so much love. I keep using that word, I know, but it’s how that day felt. This man we never got to know in life must have understood how to love people. His memory seemed to braid the room together in humor, love, and affection. Even from a distance, what a worthwhile legacy.


   As the funeral concluded, some of the family members stood along the front of the room accepting a parade of mourners. I debated joining the line of people and felt completely out of place, even though we had been invited by the man’s friends. Since I knew in my heart my being there was not for spectatorship but to say goodbye, to offer condolensces, I crept up to the front with everyone else and along the way tried to think of what to say.


   By the time I reached the front, enough hugs and kisses and handshakes had been distributed to sort of relax the outward grief. The man who officiated the service was smiling. More of those funny, affectionate stories were clearly being shared, and at the last minbute I almost turned to go. But he smiled warmly at me so I shook his hand.

   “Thank you for coming,” he said. He didn’t know me, of course. He folded my hand together with both of his hands.


   “Your brother was obviously such a wonderful and loved person, and what a beautiful family you have. My husband and I live on — Road…” I thought that naming the road would be sufficient, no need to spell it our further. It was. His expression changed in a second.


   “Oh… Thank you,” but his smile faltered and his grip strengthened, then he looked away. I honestly was very worried it had been a huge mistake in attending. When we released the handshake I smiled a tiny bit at the woman to his right and left the funeral home as quietly as I could.

Epilogue:
   In the days immediately following the funeral, we noticed a large collection of flower sprays placed on the shoulder of our road, weighted down by a cinder block. Roses, white gladiolus, lots of greenery. We couldn’t help but notice they were on the opposite side of the road and about twenty feet off from the site of the crash. We will probably never forget exactly that spot. I know I think about it every time we drive past.
   Handsome and I only one time verbally considered moving the flowers to the correct location, in honor of the deceased man, but of course understood that was not our place. So they are still there now. Withered and brown and weighted by that cinder block.

   On Easter Sunday, in the late afternoon, Handsome was outside moving animals around when he saw a car parked at our front gate. This is not normal, and we weren’t expecting company, so after a moment he went down the gravel driveway. He found the brother,  the gentleman who had reminded me of Sam Elliott. They traded introductions and talked more about the wreck. Knowing my husband and having briefly met this gentleman, I can only imagine how much poise and calm was between them. The brother gave thanks for coming to the funeral and shared that yes, there had been lingering concerns about alcohol. This was a wonderful opportunity for Handsome to encourage him with the fact that he did not smell any alcohol on his brother’s breath that night and that deer are thick in this area, especially on dark rainy nights like that. It had to be a deer he was avoiding.


   I am so thankful that they met. I think it’s even better than if we had gone to the funeral together. And I am also thankful he met the brother alone, because that night he had stayed with the man alone. 


   Sometimes life draws these perfect little circles. Painful and unwanted, sure, but still full of love, lessons, promises, and even poetry.


Drive safely, loved your people, trust God. 
xoxoxoxo

Bzzz…
xoxoxo

Those First Hours:
On Saturday, March 10th my husband and I were returning to the farm from an evening out, just the two of us. It was the end of my birthday week, and he had been spoiling me rotten. We were on an emotional high, laughing, relaxed, having a really good time together, bellies full but not miserable, oozing romance and peace in every way… It was shaping up to be one of those weekends that can make a person forget all about being surrounded on both sides by unreasonable work loads. (This is my husband’s professional lot right now… but he carries it very well!)

He was driving. It was about 8:35 p.m., rainy and foggy and already quite dark. Very dark, actually. He had just slowed to approach the front gate to our farm when we saw it.

A white pickup truck was wrecked in our path. Just north of the farm, between us and our gate, very nearly facing us in our lane. Its front bumper was pointed into the deep ditch there, headlights on but dim and mostly choked by the fog.

The rain was glinting off of a million pieces of shattered glass, spread evenly from one side of the paved road to the other. I had never seen anything like that, and it took a moment to register. For a split second I was dazzled by the wet, glittered blackness. Then we both saw him at the same time.

A man had been thrown from the truck and was lying alone on the asphalt, crumpled and motionless.

“There’s somebody there!” I honestly do not know which of us said it first, but in an instant our mutual sense of carefulness exploded into action. My husband tore his car through the glass, around the wreck, and off of the road. We scrambled out of his car and ran as fast as we could the fifty feet or so back to the wreck. As we ran, another pickup was approaching. Luckily that driver saw the confusion and slowed in plenty of time. I screamed at him to train his headlights on the wreck where my husband had already crouched to check the man for signs of life. I could have sworn maybe two other people were in the truck still and yelled at him to check (there were none, what I saw were shirts hanging from a hook). He was already yelling at me firmly to not come any closer!

That told me everything.

Already on the phone with 911, my husband motioned for me to go find flashlights. Then he crouched again near the man, who I could barely see from the opposite side of the wreck. He was wearing a smooth white cotton t-shirt, tucked into his belted Wranglers. His face was obscured, for which I was thankful, and he was completely still. He barely seemed real in one sense and then in another he could have been any of our Oklahoma neighbors or family members.

As I ran back to our car for the house keys and then through the gate and up the long gravel driveway, I felt this overwhelming sadness that the man, whoever he was, had been lying alone in the rain like that. No jacket. Just exposed and vulnerable, not defending himself in any way against the dreariness of the weather or the violence of the wreck. That a grown man, someone who loves and is loved, just driving in the dark a few minutes ago, could be so utterly alone and helpless. It was breaking my heart.

It was very dark, but I remember the front field animals were running in large, excited circles. The crash must have just happened, and it must have been very loud. We later surmised it was a rollover.

Once in the house I grabbed flashlights then ran at full speed back down the driveway and toward the scene.

The second driver who had just arrived was still reluctant to walk very near, which was fine. He took a flashlight from me and started searching the brush. My husband was staying with the man, holding his hand and searching for breath or a pulse. There was none.  But he stayed and spoke to him, just in case. He also kept me away.

As we all waited for the emergency crews to arrive, a small car drove up on the scene too fast. Filled with four giggling young women, probably out just having some Saturday night fun like we were doing ten minutes ago, they barely stopped in time, screeching on the slick wet road to a panicked halt with just feet to spare.

The small car’s laughter hushed in the instant that its passengers must have seen the truck and then the glass and then the man’s terribly still body. I could feel dread all around us in the damp. First my husband spoke to them, then the other young man did (they seemed to know each other). The car slowly made its turn-around and drove away. Respectfully, I thought. They left in a very different mood than they had arrived just seconds earlier.

For several minutes I stood at a distance, waiting to see how I could help and agonizing over the scene, wondering who this man could be, wanting to be with my husband and help him but trusting his protectiveness. He always steps up to the hardest jobs. That’s just his nature.

Soon we heard the distant wail of fire trucks and police cars. No one spoke; we just waited and watched. When they arrived, a crew of men helped search the surrounding areas, helped confirm no one else was in the wreck, and relieved my husband of his post at the man’s side. He stayed there to give what information he could and provide names and phone numbers, etc. I was urged to go back to the house, which I did. I called my Mom on the way. When she answered, all the breath I had been holding in spilled out in ridiculous little girl sobs.

The man’s anonymity and alone-ness were torturing me, and she offered all of her softness and strength, promised to pray for him and for his family. The grief for this stranger was intense.

Eventually I saw my husband’s headlights curve slowly onto the property. He parked in his shop and walked through the rain back to the house. We gripped and held each other tightly for a few seconds but then he released me to go wash his hands and face. I couldn’t stop my mind from wondering about the identity of this man, wondering who would be getting a phone call that night. The relief of having my own husband safe at home was strong enough to make my stomach shudder.

My husband made a phone call to his own dad, so that in case the local news reported a fatality wreck on our road everyone would know we’re safe. We spent a little time trying to wind down and go to bed, but the flashing red lights remained outside for several hours. Neither of us slept much that night.

The next day we would begin to learn more about the man who lost his life in front of our home.