I don’t exactly remember the year; time has gotten away from me now that I’m a certified antique. But I believe it was just as Joseph was entering middle school since trying out for the basketball team became an issue after he attempted to cut off his arm.  We were at church one Sunday evening, preparing for a fellowship meal in the ministry building.  It was the old building on Church Street—the building that had a wonderful basement with classrooms to either side and a hallway just made for running.  My son, who at that time hated the Power Rangers, was busily scouring the building, chasing some younger kids who were pretending to be those much despised fictional characters.  In order to escape their foe, they ran into one of the classrooms in the basement, slamming the door behind them.  In order to stop the door from shutting (and thereby impeding his progress), Joseph raised his arm with every intention of hitting the wood frame of the door with his hand.

Instead his arm went through the glass that formed a window in said door.

With blood gushing everywhere, he came flying into the ministry building, yelling “MY ARM!! MY ARM!!” at which point some adult (who had not turned to fully assess the situation) shushed him.  After all, we were about to pray.  So Joseph stopped yelling and just stood there, wide-eyed and terrified, holding his arm with blood pooling at his feet.  The shusher turned to identify the shushee and found a blood-splattered mess rather than an irreverent child.  Praying ceased.  Yelling resumed.

I was summoned and, being a mother, immediately guided my child to the nearest sink (for easier clean up) and inspected the damage as best I could. All the blood made that a little difficult.  Not knowing the extent of his injury, I turned to the crowd gathered around me and said “Who’s going with me?  If he’s nicked an artery, someone has to apply pressure or drive while I do.”  Thank you, Girl Scout first aid training.  Someone immediately volunteered, his arm was securely wrapped in paper towels (I don’t know why it was paper, but at the time I didn’t care), and we made our way to my van.  The minister’s wife assured me she had custody of my daughter, the minister offered to call the emergency room to tell them I was coming, and somehow we got word to my husband who was at work.

Once things settled down and the surgeon (who also happened to be a good friend) had looked at Joseph’s arm, he determined a tendon had been nicked but no artery, the skin that I assumed had been left on the basement floor was actually pushed into his arm and could be reattached, and all was going to be well . . . but it was gonna take a while . . . and a fair number of stitches.

In the days that followed I heard people commenting on how composed I had been, how I had calmly viewed the situation and taken appropriate action instead of hysterically running from the building. What they didn’t know was once I knew my son was going to be all right, I politely excused myself from the exam room, went into the nearest restroom, and threw up.  That’s how I roll.  Calm in the face of disaster.  Retching afterwards.

I’ve told you all of that to illustrate a very important point. And, of course, it involves Death.  When he comes to call there may be those initial moments of shock or dismay or intense sorrow.  But as the process moves forward, those who are the most involved and who were closest to the deceased have their focus shifted to the planning and the visitation and the funeral.  They are still very much aware of the loss, but distracted by the activity around them.  It’s a blessing—and a curse, for when everyone goes away, and they walk into a quiet house, surrounded by every tangible memory of someone who is no longer there, the loss becomes very real and often unbearable.

So today’s message isn’t as much for the grieving as for those who would minister to them. Remember that grief is only beginning when the funeral ends and your presence will be needed far more in the days and weeks and months ahead than it ever was during those first few hours.  Humans were never meant to be solitary creatures or to bear their burdens alone.  So please, be prepared to listen endlessly, to wipe away countless tears, to love and accept unconditionally—for as long as it takes.  Patience is truly a virtue, and never more so than when helping someone navigate through loss.

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