Sunday morning announcements at church can tend to run a little long, so lately the designated announcer has tried to shorten them by only mentioning those things which have come up since the bulletin was emailed and the paper versions printed. This Sunday morning was one of those when the list of sick had grown a little longer and a name was mentioned that was very familiar. As far back as I can remember he had been a friend of my family, one of those folks to whom my parents were close, one who had outlived them despite battling cancer and other health issues. And now he was in the hospital in Nashville with heart problems.

The mention of his name brought to mind another who was not in attendance that day. I glanced across the auditorium to his “usual” pew, knowing full well he would not be there. His mental health has deteriorated drastically and his wife stays with him since leaving him alone for extended periods of time is no longer an option. They were both some of my parents’ closest friends; he was one of the few who still came to visit when my father’s decline made visiting uncomfortable, and we asked him to speak at Dad’s funeral. I didn’t realize the dementia had already begun, but he did, and his wife shared with me later that he was afraid he would do poorly, but they wrote out what he wanted to say and I never would have known there was a problem had she not told me.

As I was processing everything that was assaulting my noggin’, we began to sing “Our God, He is Alive” and I went into sensory overload. Before the advent of cell phones but after the arrival of call forwarding, my father would send the funeral home phones to the church’s number then stand in the foyer so if it rang he would be the one to answer. And if we ever sang that song, at the end his “Amen!” would ring loud and clear from the back of the building. We sang it at his funeral and my brother filled that role when the last verse was done. My nose went red and my throat tightened and my head dropped as I tried to regain control of my tired and hormonal emotions.

Later that day, my son called to report on the latest news from Facebook and Instagram. One of the kindest, most gentle and gracious ladies I have ever known had died. Again, she and her husband were close to my parents, people I had always known and respected, friends for more years than I could recall. When her family came to arrange for her services, I hugged her daughters and her husband. He was the one who observed that the old gang was growing smaller after one daughter whispered in my ear, “You know what it’s like”.

These events couldn’t manage to scatter themselves across weeks or months; they had to occur one right after the other. Within a matter of hours I was reminded again and again of what I had lost and, even though it was years before, the pain felt fresh and the tears were difficult to contain. So many people from my childhood were leaving, people who had just always been there and, therefore, should always be—and each separation brought to mind the previous losses.

Nigella Lawson, who happens to be an English journalist and broadcaster, among other things, made an excellent observation regarding death. She said, “In a funny way, each death is different and you mourn each death differently and each death brings back the death you mourned earlier and you get into a bit of a pile-up”. She’s right, you know. And that’s especially true if you haven’t come to terms with those prior losses. Death demands our acknowledgment and to withhold that is to grant it power over the rest of our lives. Unfortunately, acknowledgment and adjustment do not mean we will never mourn that loss again. It simply means the pile-up isn’t quite as bad.

The post A Bit of a Pile-Up appeared first on Shackelford Funeral Directors | Blog.