a different kind of celebration

Although I don't have a bit of Irish in me, I have occasionally celebrated St. Patrick's Day in typical ways over the years. A couple of times, I spent the evening (and the wee hours of the morning) in a bar singing and laughing and drinking way too much. For several years, I accompanied my friend, Mary, to the annual parade in downtown Cleveland. I do love a parade, but it was just too cold to stand outside for several hours, even wearing so many layers I looked like the Michelin Man.

This year was different. The weather was beautiful, for one thing. The sky was a clear and cloudless blue all day long. The temperature hovered in the 50s, and for all I know, shot up to 60 in the afternoon. And I was at a celebration of a different kind yesterday. I was in a synagogue, celebrating a young life cut short. I went to Ali's funeral.

Janet and I drove down to Canton, and slipped into seats in the back of the sanctuary. We didn't talk to anyone there. We didn't know anyone there. We had only known Ali. We were there for Ali. I just wanted to occupy a seat there. I just wanted to be counted as someone whose life had been touched by her. We saw Ali's family seated in the front row, but only the backs of their heads as they listened to the rabbis and speakers talk about their beloved Ali. They hugged and wiped their eyes as they listened.

At the end of the service, they followed Ali's casket up the aisle. That was when I saw Ali's mother's face for the first time, and quickly looked away. To look into her face was to think the unthinkable. No, it was to know the unthinkable. My child could die before me. I had learned this lesson before - twelve years ago, almost to the day, when I attended Ava's funeral. Ava had been my kids' regular babysitter when I worked at the library. Her mother was my co-worker and good friend.

Ava was the light of her mother's life, as I'm sure Ali was. You wouldn't have known it to look at Ava, but she was sick most of her life. She was attending law school when she got sick again from too many nights spent studying instead of sleeping. She came home and was admitted to the hospital a few blocks up the street from the house where she grew up. She died there. So, yes, I thought of Ava yesterday. How could I not? Ava's life was too important to forget. So was Ali's. I believe I honor them both by remembering them and mentioning them here. I believe I celebrate their lives.

family is where you find it

I hadn't expected to be back in Elyria again so soon, but when I read in the online Chronicle that my friend Linda's husband had passed away, I knew I would attend the memorial service. I wanted to see Linda and tell her how sorry I was, but I also wanted to see the library ladies, whom I knew would all be there. Linda works at the library where I worked for eleven years, and one thing I know about working there is that the staff takes care of its own.

I left the house mid-morning on Saturday, and an hour later I was turning into the parking lot of the church across the street from the library. I was barely inside the church door when I ran into Jenni and Maggie and Joanne. There were hugs all around, and as we walked down the hallway together our first questions were about each other's kids and where they were and what they were doing.

As we waited in line to sign the guest book (is that the correct term?) I saw more familiar faces up ahead. There were Mary and Terri and Barb and Lisa standing to one side. I received hugs straight down the line from all of them, and although I knew it was a solemn occasion, I felt a huge grin on my face from the pleasure of seeing them again. There was another quick round of "how are the kids?" before we turned to enter the sanctuary. I saw Brenda and Marianne and Janet there, as well, before we sat down.

I found myself seated between Jenni and Mary, who is so tender-hearted that she had her pack of tissues open on her lap before I even took my coat off. Mary is Irish, as was my friend's late husband, and as the organist played "Oh, Danny Boy" and "When Irish Eyes are Smilin", Mary's eyes welled over. I knew she had lost her mother within the last six months, and I could only imagine how difficult the day was for her. She was there anyway, though. For Linda.

Sitting at the memorial service surrounded by my friends, I was reminded of another service we attended together - could it be ten years ago now? - when Ava died. Terri's bright, beautiful daughter, who attended law school in Akron, had been sick most of her life. You wouldn't know it to look at her; she looked vibrant and healthy and full of life. She was my kids' babysitter for the years that they needed one. Their most vivid memory of her, I think, is that they always watched Court TV together, and that Ava always knew she wanted to be a lawyer. She was working towards that goal when her final illness caught up with her.

Seeing Linda enter the sanctuary with her daughters and their families brought home to me how devastating the loss of her husband was. My heart ached for her. I could only hope that the crowded memorial service would begin a healing process that I knew would take a long time. As the organist played "Amazing Grace" at the end of the service, even tough little Jenni broke down, and I handed Mary's tissue pack to her so she could wipe her eyes.

As we filed out, I saw Gina sitting in the back pew. I knew then that I had unconsciously been looking for her all morning, as I had known she would be there for Linda, as well. In fact, I could have written out a list beforehand of the women I anticipated seeing on that cold February morning, and I know I would have listed everyone I saw. We shared our joys and sorrows when we worked together, and we were sharing them still. That's what family does.