As Your Time Comes

Earlier this evening, at a memorial for a friend who died recently, I was sitting a bit apart from the rest of the crowd with my two-year-old grandson. The ceremony was on the back deck of a museum with a broad view of San Francisco Bay.

Below us, swimmers walked by in towels or with their wetsuits half off. Children rode their trikes with training wheels. Lovers strolled hand in hand. Some people walked dogs. Some dogs looked to be walking people.

Many of those below looked up to the solemn scene: A Buddhist Monk lighting candles and the gathered friends and family of the departed chanting and singing and praying.

Up above was the mourning; down below was life, vibrant and fresh.

As the designated babysitter, I knew I probably would not be able to stay for the entire ceremony, and I did not. Although he behaved wonderfully, my little companion eventually tired of the scene and led me back indoors, and then, ultimately, back to "Grandpa's house."

The person whose life we gathered to celebrate would have appreciated the humor inherent in a memorial service conducted just above half-naked beach goers. She would have appreciated a solemn moment in a place of great beauty. She would have appreciated her husband's stirring, funny talk. She would have loved every minute of it.

***

I always cry at funerals; I always cry at weddings. I cry at births, I cry at deaths. I cry at good news and at bad news. It occurs to me I cry all too often for a big, strong man like me.

As I move through crowds, I am always conscious of being bigger and taller than most people. When the kid next to me is my soccer-playing 16-year-old, we are both taller than most everyone else -- him especially, since he is now 6'1" tall. His "little" brother looks like he is about to become the tallest of all of us; at 14, he is visibly poking higher and higher into the atmosphere, to a level none of us in this family have previously reached.

He disclaims athletics, but yesterday dusted both me and his brother at "21" in the backyard basketball court. "It's funny how the basket looks closer now," he said as he sank shot after shot.

Of course, when you are tall, basketball becomes an entirely different game than it was when you were short.

***

People come and go in life. We all know this, but this confuses me greatly. Sometimes I wonder whether I am capable of knowing who is here and who isn't in conventional terms.

Let me try to explain.

I forgive people easily. There are many who done me harm in one way or another; just as I have harmed others. Some have dealt me great harm.

But with virtually all of them, when they approach me again, I easily forgive and welcome them back into my life.

Why?

Maybe it is the same reason while at our friend's memorial tonight, my eye was drawn more to the life below than the memory of life above. Time has never felt endless to me. For many years, particularly when I escaped death by an hour or so in India in early 1971, I've not had the capacity to stay mad at anyone for very long.

They will die. I will die. We all will die.

Why hold a grudge?

They will suffer pain; I will suffer pain; we all will suffer pain.

Why not feel compassion?

I know this much -- I am at my very best when comforting another dealing with a loss that overwhelms them. I know this state; clearly, it is familiar territory emotionally, for me.

Deep emotions like this scare some people. But they don't scare me. The honor of comforting a friend about a loss that is hurting them is one I never shy away from.

If they let me in then, a friend will be a friend for life. Life and death.

There is no other way to close this post but to say that I am glad my grandson was there tonight, at a memorial ceremony, even if he didn't know exactly what was going on. It didn't matter, because when it comes to spiritual moments, even babies know.

We all know.

May she rest in peace, the one who has left this realm. May the rest of us cherish what time we have left, and try to see the world again through the eyes of a two-year-old.

"Look, Grandpa. A sailboat. It's going out to sea."

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