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What was remarkable was what wasn't said, what couldn't be, or shouldn't. A funeral simply wasn't the time to flush out the story because in this man's life the devil was, without a doubt, in the details.
Had the preacher mentioned that he'd suffered immensely, none of the few who gathered for the service would have been surprised; they knew. His back-breaking burdens didn't need to be recounted, not to his friends and certainly not to his family. Still, that none of that life was even mentioned seemed, to me at least, somehow remarkable.
And yet not. What was said was what needed to be: that this soft-spoken man had gone home in peace, that he'd always loved the Lord, that his way had always been quiet and selfless, that he'd suffered the travail that is our lot in this vale of tears, and that, remarkably, he'd chosen Psalm 121 as the text for his funeral, a psalm that names the Lord as our keeper six times in its eight verses. If anyone had or has a right to testify against God's ever-abiding love, this gentle giant did.
But at the end what he himself wanted said was that the sun would not harm us by day, nor the moon by night, that the Lord will watch over our lives, our comings and goings both now and forevermore. That was the balm he carried with him into death. He wanted that known.
The writer in me waited for at least some mention of the details to bear witness to all that surety. I wanted to be shown and not told, wanted to hear a recitation of the earthly story, at least in outline.
But, remarkably, nothing was said. That which couldn't be spoken, wasn't.
All of which, in an odd way, made what could be said--and what was--even more astounding, made Psalm 121 magnificently more memorable.
In that funeral, what couldn't be said made what was--the amazing grace of the Lord--even more remarkable.
If that makes sense--and it really doesn't. Grace, I mean.
That it's real--that's really remarkable. That's what I learned, again, from what wasn't said, and what was.
Had the preacher mentioned that he'd suffered immensely, none of the few who gathered for the service would have been surprised; they knew. His back-breaking burdens didn't need to be recounted, not to his friends and certainly not to his family. Still, that none of that life was even mentioned seemed, to me at least, somehow remarkable.
And yet not. What was said was what needed to be: that this soft-spoken man had gone home in peace, that he'd always loved the Lord, that his way had always been quiet and selfless, that he'd suffered the travail that is our lot in this vale of tears, and that, remarkably, he'd chosen Psalm 121 as the text for his funeral, a psalm that names the Lord as our keeper six times in its eight verses. If anyone had or has a right to testify against God's ever-abiding love, this gentle giant did.
But at the end what he himself wanted said was that the sun would not harm us by day, nor the moon by night, that the Lord will watch over our lives, our comings and goings both now and forevermore. That was the balm he carried with him into death. He wanted that known.
The writer in me waited for at least some mention of the details to bear witness to all that surety. I wanted to be shown and not told, wanted to hear a recitation of the earthly story, at least in outline.
But, remarkably, nothing was said. That which couldn't be spoken, wasn't.
All of which, in an odd way, made what could be said--and what was--even more astounding, made Psalm 121 magnificently more memorable.
In that funeral, what couldn't be said made what was--the amazing grace of the Lord--even more remarkable.
If that makes sense--and it really doesn't. Grace, I mean.
That it's real--that's really remarkable. That's what I learned, again, from what wasn't said, and what was.
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