On Friday evening, I attended the viewing of a coworker's husband. Upon arrival to the funeral home, I immediately spotted the line of mourners wrapped around the great room almost right up to the door -- and was struck by how eerily familiar it was to the receiving line at a wedding, though obviously somber in mood. My coworkers and I huddled closely together, admiring the photos and personal belongings of the deceased, inching our way toward the family. As we grew nearer, I found myself nervous and awkward, never one at ease with small talk and social niceties.
When it was my turn, I hugged my coworker, hoping that I could show, rather than say, how terribly sorry I was. They had been married for 46 years, and I couldn't find a way to express that I wasn't equipped to understand the tiniest bit of how she must feel. She introduced me to her daughter and we shook hands. When I reached her son-in-law, I found myself babbling absentmindedly with a reflexive, "Nice to meet you..." before realizing and following up with an uncomfortable, "Well, under the circumstances." By the time I reached her son, I told him how sorry I was, but he wouldn't make eye contact, so I was just left with a feeling of utter inadequacy.
The thing is, it pains me when words fail me in times that I want them to matter. I struggle to vocalize what I want to say, when I want to say it, because words... They’ve always been meaningful to me somehow.
I drove home thinking about what I would have said if I had a second chance. Maybe I would have repeated my name to the family, for starters. Talked about how I knew my coworker, how much she's taught and helped me over the years. Maybe I would have said I would pray for them or keep them in my thoughts. And maybe none of it would have mattered anyway.
When I came home, I found my daughter and husband snuggled on the couch together, and thanked God that He gave us another day. I hugged her, relieved, that I didn't need any words to show her how much I love her. I read her a bedtime story, stroked her face and her hair, marveled for probably the thousandth time how she was here, warm and soft, and was comforted thinking of her musical laugh and the sound of her sweet words: "I love you, Mommy. I love you, too."
