A Grief Observed

Hello,

I only have a minute to write this; it is Easter Sunday, and services at my church begin in an hour. Easter is one of the most joyous — no, the most joyous  — day in the Christian calendar. It is the day the disciples discovered the empty tomb; it is the day that Jesus Christ conquered death for all of us. It is a day full of rebirth, and beautiful spring days, perfect for soaking in the awareness of God's love, and watching children enjoy the surprise of more candy than they can possibly eat in one sitting — although many of them will certianly try.

Easter is a day that I cherish. And even as I write this, I am able to bask, just a little, in the specialness of this day.

This is also an Easter that I was able to appreciate without the benefit of much imagination the disciple's feeling of loss that Friday and Saturday night. As many of you may know, Yvonne and I lost one of our dearest friends on Palm Sunday. Amy Dodson was, in part, one of the reasons we chose the name Amy for our daughter, and she was always known as Aunt Amy in our house. I first met her when the girl I was dating at the time (and who kindly consented to marry me a few months later) brought her over to my apartment.

This was the mid-eighties, and Rush was still very much a cult band that were almost exclusively the earnest province of nerdy young men. Women at Rush concerts at that point were a complete unknown, unlike today, when they are merely an occasional rarity.

When they arrived, Amy walked to the center of the room, turned to face my stereo, and the 3x4-foot "Rush"Starman banner that dominated the wall, and exclaimed "Oh, cool! Rush!" Somewhat stunned, I soon learned I was in the presence of what must have then been the only female Rush fan in the entire Mid-South. (my wife would soon join her, which was probably a very good thing for her sanity, since she'd be living with the band for her entire married life — in fact, to date, she's seen them nine times).

Anyway, it was natural with a bond like that that Amy and I would become friends. And for 27 years, she was a charter member of a group I call "the circle" — a group of five or six college friends that have remained close well after what should have been our expiration date. Since then, a few of us have fallen out of touch, but in many cases, we still keep in touch, we call each other more than some families call each other, and we manage to juggle finances and schedules to see each other a couple times a year, if not more. They are, in short, friends that have become family.

And Amy was the first of us to leave.

I've lost family members before, so I know what grief is. This is somehow different. This is a someone who died unexpectedly, who took us completely off-guard. It is a loss that has changed us both. I could write all day, and still not be able to tell you how — somehow, words seem like the wrong reaction to this.

I am writing this morning because my friend was buried on Good Friday, and today is Easter Sunday. I have felt the joy of the resurrection in years past, but today, the sorrow of the tomb is, I'm sorry to say, still coloring things.

It also seemed wrong to let this occasion pass without comment. I was not about to use this space to memorialize Steve Jobs, who made the products I love, and little more than that, and not make some mention of a woman who was, in my estimation, far his superior in kindness, compassion, and innate love of her fellow men. I realize that it is common to over-romanticize the good qualities of the recently departed, but Amy was, quite simply, one of the most innately compassionate people I will probably ever know. The way she cared for people was, as my wife observed, Christ-like — she always put others before herself, she was one of the world's great listeners, and she seemed completely without the self-centeredness that plagues many of us, myself certainly included. I am among the many who are infinitely better for having known her.

And now, I must go. It is Easter Sunday. And, hallelujah, He is Risen!