God Writes A Different Story

By virtue of trade, I am required to attend and work funerals, often for individuals whom I’ve never met. Funerals may be a part of life, but I would argue that death is not. I’ve never heard it said from a pulpit but a phrase that deeply troubles me goes like this: “Death is natural… it’s a part of life.” The people who I’ve heard speak this way are not ill-intentioned, and the phrase often comes from a good place, but when I hear those words my knee jerk reaction is always a question: “How so?” Death being a “part of life” is usually uttered in passing which is not a particularly appropriate time to offer my retort, therefore I often refrain from launching into what could be an hour-long conversation, but inside… my question resonates, and I hold the internal heaviness of not speaking a counter perspective: death is wrong.

Arriving early to events is consistent practice for audio technicians, the variables often depend on the event itself. Sunday mornings consist of many different moving parts: multiple band members, lots of gear and large instruments, a multitude of microphones and cabling, etc. On Sundays, one can expect to move a little lighter on their feet. It isn’t inappropriate or unexpected when the first person you see on a Sunday morning has a large smile and a warmer tone to their voice when they say, “Good morning! How’s the weekend?” Small talk of things like weather, or a brief explanation of something unique from the past several days is commonplace and adds to the excitement of a day that appears to already be going well. To arrive early at a funeral, on the other hand, is to step into the early, ever shifting tides of sorrow and loss.

Doing funerals for those whom you’ve never met is even further disorientating and I catch myself trying to put the puzzle together; placing family members in their perspective spaces, the pieces to the puzzle are individuals and fitting them correctly is based on levels of grief I observe in the faces of loved ones. Your biggest fear as a tech is apathy. A family member having the thought that the person behind the sound board has little interest or care in their grief is enough to make me want to rush to any and all, despite my relationship or lack thereof and say, “Hi, my name is Mike, I’m so sorry for your loss.” At funerals the greetings are said in hush tones, and many people – myself included – seem fearful that any happiness in their tone might be lifted through the air and reach the family which would suggest disrespect. Grief is ever present, and the atmospheric contrast to a Sunday can be felt on a cellular level.

It is Saturday June 5. I am scheduled to run sound for a funeral at Friendship Church, Prior Lake campus. Visitation for the family begins at 10am and wanting to be sure I have enough time to setup and cover all technical requirements, I have arrived an hour early. At precisely 9:00am I pass through the sanctuary doors, and I can immediately feel the familiar difference between a Sunday, and the present event. At the front of the room, just below the stage, I notice the stunning craftsmanship of a well-polished wood casket, and I can see that the lid is intentionally open; inside lies the body of a loved one who has passed. To either side of the casket there are brilliantly arranged bouquets, enormous, each with a variety of vibrant colors.

Not knowing the family, or the person who lies peacefully inside the casket I keep a respectful distance. I feel that it isn’t my place to look closer and my convictions tell me that the surrounding space around the casket is reserved for loved ones. A brief glance from the back of the room is all I can use for insight. The stage lighting shines down into the casket at an angle that allows me to briefly notice the thinned hair of an almost bald head belonging to someone I estimate has died in his 80s. If it weren’t for the length of his hair, I may have been unable to assume the deceased is male. Maybe someone’s grandfather, I think to myself. A small wave of relief washes over me as I grow hopeful that the friends and family of this older gentleman were able to rest by his side before he passed, and that he leaves behind a full and well-lived life. Maybe today will be similar to a Sunday morning. Maybe greetings won’t be as hushed, maybe my lack of relationship to the family will not be felt by others, maybe the atmosphere will carry with it a spirit of celebration, rather than loss.

I move through my responsibilities behind the sound board with a bit of ease. I feel clearer and less heavy-laden and start to believe that smiles might be appropriate, possibly even expected. The last item on my check list for the morning is to set and prep the Chapel where lunch is scheduled to take place following the ceremony.

In the hallway just outside the sanctuary, staff members stand near the doors ready to greet guests, as a few begin to arrive. I make my way to the west end of the building passing by two TV monitors that roll through a slideshow of photographs. A photo of four individuals standing together in front of a lake – the younger gentleman in the picture holding a large fish – fades to black and is in the process of switching to a new photo. Moving quickly, I try to keep an eye on the monitor and catch a glimpse of the next picture as it appears, but as it starts to fade in, the corridor walls leading to the Chapel eclipse my gaze and I continue forward, determined to accomplish my final task. I reach the end of the corridor and see that the Chapel doors have all been propped open. Stepping inside, I’m surprised to find all the equipment in the Chapel has already been turned on. Rows of tables and chairs are all in place. The tables are carefully draped in cloth, the chairs are in order and neatly tucked beneath each table’s edge.

The sun is still over the east side of the building which stops the morning rays from spilling in through the windows, the lack of natural light makes the ceiling projector’s beam slightly visible in the air which captures thin strips of dust particles. The cone shaped beam extends in length and grows wider as it reaches for a screen that hangs on the adjacent north side wall. The beam suddenly changes colors and I look at the screen in time to see another photo from the same slideshow on the TV monitors out in the lobby. A different photo of the same young man who had been holding a large fish in the previous, is now being projected on screen, but here he stands beside a woman who appears to be of similar age; his arm hangs at his side and near the bottom of the frame I can see that he is holding her hand right hand. The young man doesn’t appear to be a day over 25. They are both smiling in the photo, and based on the lack of space between them, it feels safe to assume that the two of them are in love. I have a thought to check the young woman’s left hand for a ring, but I am abruptly distracted by a different observation. The young man is completely bald. I’m hit with mixed feelings of excitement and devastating curiosity as I realize that I have just been presented with a new piece to the puzzle. Determining whether or not the piece will fit suddenly hangs on the next several photos. I hold my breath and hope the following picture contains unrecognizable faces. The young couple begins to slowly fade out. My heart sinks as a new image of the same young man comes into focus. The slideshow continues and I watch several more pictures come and go. Each time the screen fades to black a new photo appears and the young man’s face is consistent in every one.          

I leave the Chapel and make way upstairs with the intention of checking in with the person running slides in the media room. The operator has stepped out, but I bump into pastor Art. “Hi, Art.”

“Good morning, sir! How are you?” He asks.

“Well… You know, it’s been a while since I’ve been to a funeral with an open casket. When I came in this morning I wrongly assumed that person who passed was in their 80s. I’ve been watching the slideshow and I’m just now realizing that he may have been younger than me.”

“Oh yeah.” Art says. “No, he was only 24. He had Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. He and his wife have only been married for two weeks.”

I take a moment to absorb pastor Art’s statement. The words, married for two weeks, hit a button on a remote control for my brain and a mental movie starts to play. I can suddenly see brief snippets from scenes of a young couple who are happy, but the husband is dying. “Whoa… This is a difficult funeral.” I say. “But they were married?”

“Yup. Only two weeks, and I’m not exactly sure of the whole story there.”

“Wow, that’s really difficult.” I say. “I was going to say, she must be a remarkable person to marry someone who was dying.”

 “Yeah, I’m not sure how that came to be, but it is a remarkable, and very sad story.”

Art and I part ways for the time being, and I head back downstairs to the sanctuary. The visitation begins in fifteen minutes. Back at the sound board the pastor who will be speaking during the ceremony, is quietly going over his message notes. We greet one another, softly. I take my post behind the sound board and linger for a few moments, but then, to interrupt the silence I turn towards the pastor and say, “I’ve been really sad to learn more about this family and hear some of their story.” The pastor tips his head and closes his notes.

“Yes.” He says to me, quietly. “It is quite a story.” His tone is very inviting, and my nerves of speaking up have completely subsided. We both take a step closer to one another, and I sort of lean-in, hoping to say more.

“When I first got here I didn’t get close enough to the casket to see his face, and I thought that this may have been the funeral for someone in his 80s. It wasn’t until I stepped outside and noticed the photos that this is someone who was very young.”

“Ooohhh, no, exactly,” he says. “It’s been a long journey. He had cancer, but fully recovered. My wife and I actually officiated at he and his wife’s wedding just two weeks ago. His girlfriend stayed with him through the cancer, and when they got the news that it was in remission, they all celebrated over what looked like the start of things beginning to really turn around.”

At this point I have stayed completely silent and stunned. I let the pastor continue and he says, “The two of them were thrilled to move in the direction they had longed to for so long. A few weeks after it went into remission, he was strong enough to walk down the aisle on his own.”

I continued listening to the pastor and he went on to explain that even though the cancer had subsided there was a need to still administer medications for a different condition that had developed as a result of the cancer, a condition known as Guillain-Barré syndrome. The medication was administered via a PICC line (which stands for peripherally inserted central catheter) and after not feeling so well during the first week of marriage, he and his family all went back to the hospital they had just left, where they removed the PICC line from the young man’s body and believe that an infection had got in and gone to his heart. The pastor told me that within twelve hours of admittance, the young man died.

As difficult as it was, I find myself grateful that I had the opportunity to be there for the rest of that morning. The story didn’t end with the pastor telling me of the family’s tragedy and leaving myself, or anyone else in attendance, stuck within a pit of despair. As the 10:00am visitation began I stood behind the sound board and saw the grief of a young woman who was widowed after only two weeks of marriage. I could see the pain in the eyes of a mother and father who were burying their son of only 24 years, but despite the pain there was an enormous ray of hope that shot through the entire building that morning. The young man who passed, knew Jesus.

Towards the middle of the pastor’s message, he seemingly stepped away from his notes when he explained to all of us in attendance that if we were the ones writing the story it would likely end differently. In our Hollywood-ized versions of romance and happy endings the groom doesn’t die, parents and grandparents do not bury their children, and we see life lived to its fullest extent. “Luckily for us,” the pastor said, “our heavenly author writes a different story and tells us that death is not the end for those whose hope is in Him.” In God’s story His son does die, that we might live, and be with Him eternally in a place where there is no death, sickness and pain, or suffering of any kind.

As I listened to the pastor’s message I thought of my own life, and my concern of death and the loss of loved ones. Those of us who attend church have heard the message of eternal life before, but when we’re young it often feels like a distant concept, rather than an immediate reality. As I made all the right technical preparations for the funeral that morning, I had skipped the internal prep work, and neglected to reflect on the fact that I myself will one day go home to be with Jesus, and the weight of the young man’s story would remind me that I do not know when. Despite the floor having been ripped out beneath their feet, one thing was abundantly clear: the family was standing on solid rock. In the face of death, and searing loss, the young man and those he left behind stood firm on one life-changing, foundational truth: Christ crucified. “Yet a little while and the world will see me no more, but you will see me. Because I live, you also will live.” – John 14:19