People die. Yes, every single person who is living will eventually cease to exist. Hearts quit loving and beating. Eyes quit sparkling and seeing. Mouths quit smiling and speaking. Hands and feet stop fidgeting. Our bodies will decompose and to dust we shall return, like in Genesis 3:19 “By the sweat of your brow shall you have food to eat until you return to the ground from which you were made. For you were made from dust, and to dust you shall return.”
My final year of college I took a religion class; Senior Religion (adequately named) was required to graduate. One of the things I learned (there were many) and will never forget was told to my class in sort of an off-hand manner. The professor added this little tidbit while lecturing about something else: Did you know human beings are the only species on Earth with knowledge of their own demise?
We know our days are numbered, and this makes us uniquely human.
The concept of death haunts me. I suffered from severe anxiety surrounding the idea of death from a young age, and I remember the exact moment when I was struck with this fear: first grade. A tiny, green-eyed, and spindly blonde haired girl who bawled like the baby she was when a classmate’s father died. I don’t remember necessarily being friends with the kid, I wasn’t chased by him during recess or anything…but, for some reason I can still feel that same tightening in my heart. The intense sorrow and overwhelming panic; identical to that day when I learned the inexplicable news of his father’s death.
I had never lost a family member (let alone a parent!) and up until this point, I had remained acquiescently unaware that life could end. Up until this point, my young mind had never considered that our loved ones could die…never considered that I, myself, could die. Just like flowers in the winter or a fire during a rainstorm, our time on Earth will end. This was the day I learned the impartial nature of death, and consequently the day I learned the fleeting nature of life.
Fast forward about 15 years and enter my future husband: funeral director. I still giggle when I think of God’s ironic sense of humor when he paired a thanatophobic with a licensed funeral director! So, you can imagine my apprehension when Ross asked me to attend a funeral he was directing. Well, I couldn’t disappoint those puppy-dog eyes, so before I knew it, I was compelled to agree. What did I get myself into?
Shannon had died of an accidental drug overdose. On Christmas Eve. At age 19. Her body was calm in a rented casket from McEwen-Pineville Chapel, and her long red hair was curled in an angelic way around her face. Her ivory hands were folded gently atop her lithe waist, and I was in line among her family and friends to ‘view’ Shannon.
During the actual ceremony, or “Celebration of Life” as the program stated, I felt a surreal sense of mystery. For a reason which I could not contemplate, I was now in a room filled with strangers who were grieving the loss of a beautiful daughter, a carefree friend…someone I had never met. Six months ago, I would have never imagined this would be the case; yet, here I was…sobbing. One after another Shannon’s family and friends shared Shannon’s life with the mourners, who were so numerous that some were even forced to stand for lack of seating. We were awestruck at the finality of death as we listened, with a palpable silence, to testimonies of love and companionship which were now only memories.
I think that death has the ability to both unite and rip apart humanity. Wars are waged to kill people we have never met because their way of life threatens ours, yet we all shudder when a racing ambulance or solemn hearse passes us on the highway. A nation breathes a sigh of relief at the capture and murder of a terrorist, yet we can all find ways to relate to songs like “Who You’d Be Today” by Kenny Chesney. Sitting in the church that day, I was enveloped in the thick blanket of human nature. Every broken heart in that room was swelling with an expressive want, a need, to both give and receive comfort. Funerals are good for the soul.
It turns out Shannon was such a talented artist. I took a picture with my phone so you guys could see some of her pieces:
Shannon’s sister sang a seraphic version of this song:
Thanks for reading, everyone. I recently watched The Beach, and this quote seemed oddly fitting:
“You hope, and you dream. But you never believe that something’s gonna happen for you. Not like it does in the movies. And when it actually does, you want it to feel different, more visceral, more real. I was waiting for it to hit me, but it just wouldn’t happen.” — Richard (Leonardo DiCaprio), The Beach, 2000
