At the appointed time, the piano rang out a familiar hymn. People were still streaming in the back door to the little chapel. Seats were few and staff members began bringing in extras. The annual memorial service for residents who passed away in the previous year was underway.
The retirement center chaplain brought a few brief words following a welcome from the director. Then, the staff waded into the task at hand . . . the reading of names and the lighting of candles in memory of those who had “gone before.”
We were there to honor my father and his 88 years of life. I didn’t really expect much beyond a few moments to focus on him, on my mom and family, and then on to the daily tasks of life and the constant memories of Dad that flicker on and off.
Yet, as each name was called, as each candle was lit, as each family representative went forward to carry the candle to a special table in front of a stained glass window, I found myself drawn more closely to all of those around me.
Our family suffered a loss that was very great this past year. But here in this room were those who remembered not only my father, but 61 others who had lived in close community and who left loving family members and friends behind. Sobering bit of intimacy. A special time with Mom, family, and a lot of my parents’ friends.
I was also drawn to the images of other friends in some of my other communities who had lost loved ones recently. And, while saddened to an extent, I was caught up in the great hope that comes in our belief that there is far more to life than a few decades of mortality.
Regardless of what was written in their obituaries, my father and 61 others made a difference in someone’s life. They walked paths before us. They helped us find our way. And, in different ways, they shared their love.
I didn’t expect to find comfort in 62 candles. But, I did.