It’s how I feel. I feel compelled to talk to my friend’s mom who just lost her husband and my own blood family and yet I don’t know what I’d say and I feel as though I should know. After all, I’m a pastor, right? I have words. I’m supposed to have words.
But really, I don’t feel pastoral. I don’t even feel communicative half the time. I run around in my head, often long enough to spit out a few clear ideas onto paper–reports, updates, half-baked sermons.
I miss being found. I miss the monotony of student life, the knowing that my seat is third row, right side, fourth in and book reviews are due every first Tuesday.
Death has me afraid of what’s to come, afraid that I didn’t have the conversation I should have had. Today is late. Time is over. Quick, rustle up all the memories. Pull together enough to keep the past alive, to keep it well.
And then pray. Pray that no one will question your tears and say rubbish like, “Oh, so you weren’t very close” as if closeness determines level of impact. As if teachers must be BFFs in order for their death to crack your heart.
Each time someone dies, death gets closer and my eyes leak and my head hurts and I wonder why I still have such a strong reaction…as if one day people will cease to matter.