I listen to NPR regularly on the way. Yesterday, they played an interview with Yo Yo Ma who discussed music during the times we’re having today. To close, he was asked to play his cello. He chose a tune he called ‘Coming Home’ later explaining it was by Dvorak. I was unfamiliar until he played the first seven notes. I knew the song better as the Second Movement of his New World Symphony. He could not have chosen a better song, at least for me. This song, played on the organ in the church I grew up in by my piano teacher, opened the music for my father’s funeral and provided a moment that will forever be seared in my mind forever. I cannot hear that piece of music and not be moved.
I sang in a choir affiliated with a church for about four years. Every other year they put on a big classical music production. My last year there it was Brahms’ Requiem. Unlike most other classical requiems, Brahms chose not to use the Catholic mass as his text and instead chose verses from the Bible to speak to the living through the first six movements of the piece. The sixth movement is glorious building up to a moment where the choir challenges death’s hold over us by singing ‘Grave where is thy victory? Death where is thy sting?’ Afterwards, Brahms launches immediately into what the Germans do best – a fugue at warp speed talking about the glory and power of the Lord building up to what feels like the end of the entire piece – but it isn’t. Done right, Brahms takes that triumphant moment away from you and launches you directly into the seventh movement with no pause with a long, drawn out ‘Blessed are the dead who in the Lord shall die.’ For various reasons, we only launched directly into the seventh at the actual performance. Fortunately the tenors didn’t have to sing first, I wouldn’t have been able to. We sang Brahms Requiem the year my father died. I absolutely balled like a baby at that very moment.
I wish that were the end of the story – the church providing a touching moment during a season of grief. The problem is that’s all they offered me. Nothing else. No sympathy. No care. Not even a single word of acknowledgement. I was to have faith in the second resurrection and look forward to the opportunity to teach him according to the government of God. My outburst of emotion would have been looked upon unkindly. I’m not with them anymore for many reasons, but that was a big one.
I worked for a police department as a civilian employee when my father died. My relationship with the officers there was rocky at best and downright hostile at worse. My family and I lived over a thousand miles from my home town and once we were finally able to leave for the funeral, the trip was awful. Exhausted and unable to make it all the way to my hometown, we found a place that could accommodate six for the night. Winding down, I took a moment to check my work email and found, much to my surprise, an email to the entire department from an officer I didn’t particularly get along with asking everyone to sign a sympathy card for me. She went on the explain that I was having a tough time of it and needed support. After wiping away my tears, I sent an email thanking her for that support from the bottom of my heart. It reminded me of the parable of the Good Samaritan – a part of the Bible we never covered in the church I was attending.
One person supported me throughout my grieving. That, of course, was Ms. Boss. Throughout the entire time, she stayed by my side both literally and figuratively while supporting me in any way she could. I didn’t make it easy for her. A decided introvert, I kept much of my grief inside and kept nearly everyone else at arm’s length including her. I failed to notice her own sorrow at my father’s passing in the meantime. Her unflinching support during those times is one of the many reasons why I am truly fortunate to call her my wife.