As I get older I find myself more in touch with emotions. How did they sneak up on me with such stealth? There’s the unavoidable outrage at a nation that has lost any morality it ever had in turning its back on the poor and minorities; anger at wars, xenophobia, and the loss of human and civil rights. It doesn’t take more than a few minutes of any news program to get me all worked up. I don’t think I can change. I don’t even think I want to change. But the tears are always there too. Sometimes it’s because of unexpected kindnesses or the rediscovery that humanity still insists on expressing its humanness. A young, healthy kid hauls off and gives a kidney to a perfect stranger. An anonymous person pays the rent for a family facing homelessness. Or my daughter organizes her friends to walk to raise money for breast cancer research. Even little kindnesses wash over me and I am filled with gratitude and a sense of relief that there’s still hope for us.
But always present is despair over the kind of world we are leaving behind. Look around and note the contempt with which most people hold their neighbor. We all, even the poor, may have cable television and smart cell phones, but we are all disposable – in the way that feudal serfs, child laborers in turn-of-the-century textile factories, or present-day coal miners are. The young especially are disposable, both on proliferating battlefields and on our streets.
The other day I received an email from the school where I teach one afternoon each week. It said that the older brother of one of my students had died and there would be grief counseling. This is a school where the volunteers and community feel enormous pride in, and a connection to, both the students and their families. Although I did not know my student’s brother, attending his funeral service as a sign of respect just seemed like the right thing to do for a family that is trying so hard to make a better world for each one of their children.
As I put on my “funeral” jacket, a piece of paper fell from the pocket. It was a handout from the service of a friend’s father, a man in his eighties who had lived a full and happy life surrounded by children and grandchildren and friends who cared about him. His final trip to the cemetery, the prayers said for him, the elderly veterans who presented his wife with a flag – all these elements were common to each man of his generation as he left the world on the same well-traveled path.
The funeral service for this young man was no different. The number of people in the evangelical church was astounding: his family, friends, neighbors, people from the wider community, various religious organizations, community organizers working against youth violence, even some gang members. There were Old and New Testament readings, music, benedictions, poetry, a eulogy, and one heartfelt appeal to end a cycle of violence between, literally, family members. “We’re all family here. We all have the same names.” On one side of the memorial handout was the song “Amazing Grace.” Like my friend’s elderly father, this young man also walked a well-traveled path, more tragic and much shorter.
As I paid my respects to his family and considered his senseless death, it was impossible not to be deeply moved by both the best and worst of what humans do to each other.
After the service I hugged a couple of students who were there for their classmate. As I walked over to them, my first impulse was to offer comfort, but of course things always work out to be not quite what you expect. My students knew their world better than anyone. They were the ones comforting me.