Heart
This is how the Padre served his first funeral as a priest: About a month after he was ordained, we got a call from some very close friends of ours with sad news: they had had a still born baby at five and half months gestation. They wanted to know if the Padre could come and bury the child at the Orthodox convent in Ventura county.
We both went, driving through the beautiful farmland around Fillmore and Castaic. It was a perfect Southern California day: the sun made all the hills glow green, but it wasn't too hot.
Our friends were outside at the monastery, talking with the nuns. I felt a bit awkward. What do you say to people when they've suffered that kind of loss? I said nothing, hoping that hugs could communicate when words failed.
I noticed that the father was holding a small box in his arm when I walked up, but I wasn't sure what it was. He set it down to go get something out of the car, and I realized it was a miniature coffin. When he returned, he tucked a tiny blanket around a little green bundle inside. As we went into the little chapel to sing the service for the burial of a child, he picked up the little coffin again, cradling it in his arm the way you cradle a tiny child who can't sleep.
In the middle of the chapel was a small table, which held the Gospel. The father set down the tiny coffin on it. He stepped back to stand with his wife. I have a snapshot in my mind of the little coffin, all by itself, and the husband and wife, right before they embraced, each one alone.
The Padre and another priest began the service, singing back and forth the short hymns for the departed child. The service, though it does pray that the child will 'rest in the bosom of Abraham', seems to focus a lot of attention on the grief of the parents. Some of the hymns are even written in the voice of the child, calling for Christ to have mercy on his grieving parents.
Those got everyone in the gut. All of us there had gathered most of all to grieve with and support the parents of the baby.
And then came the last kiss, and then the procession to the little grave yard the nuns have, where other families have buried miscarried or still born babies. The light filtered through the trees, and it could have been the scene for a fairy tale prince to see his princess, except for the hole dug deep in the ground, ready to receive the tiny coffin.
We sang a bit more, raggedly. Then the priests spoke a few words, which I can't remember. What I see in my mind at that moment, are the mother and father, desolate in their grief and weeping and the Padre, so overwhelmed with sadness for our friends he could barely preach above a whisper.
And then the father gently placed the tiny coffin in the hole, the same way you put a sleeping baby slowly and carefully into his crib to sleep. And the mother threw in the first handful of dirt, and the world wobbled on its axis with the weight of that grief.
We both went, driving through the beautiful farmland around Fillmore and Castaic. It was a perfect Southern California day: the sun made all the hills glow green, but it wasn't too hot.
Our friends were outside at the monastery, talking with the nuns. I felt a bit awkward. What do you say to people when they've suffered that kind of loss? I said nothing, hoping that hugs could communicate when words failed.
I noticed that the father was holding a small box in his arm when I walked up, but I wasn't sure what it was. He set it down to go get something out of the car, and I realized it was a miniature coffin. When he returned, he tucked a tiny blanket around a little green bundle inside. As we went into the little chapel to sing the service for the burial of a child, he picked up the little coffin again, cradling it in his arm the way you cradle a tiny child who can't sleep.
In the middle of the chapel was a small table, which held the Gospel. The father set down the tiny coffin on it. He stepped back to stand with his wife. I have a snapshot in my mind of the little coffin, all by itself, and the husband and wife, right before they embraced, each one alone.
The Padre and another priest began the service, singing back and forth the short hymns for the departed child. The service, though it does pray that the child will 'rest in the bosom of Abraham', seems to focus a lot of attention on the grief of the parents. Some of the hymns are even written in the voice of the child, calling for Christ to have mercy on his grieving parents.
Those got everyone in the gut. All of us there had gathered most of all to grieve with and support the parents of the baby.
And then came the last kiss, and then the procession to the little grave yard the nuns have, where other families have buried miscarried or still born babies. The light filtered through the trees, and it could have been the scene for a fairy tale prince to see his princess, except for the hole dug deep in the ground, ready to receive the tiny coffin.
We sang a bit more, raggedly. Then the priests spoke a few words, which I can't remember. What I see in my mind at that moment, are the mother and father, desolate in their grief and weeping and the Padre, so overwhelmed with sadness for our friends he could barely preach above a whisper.
And then the father gently placed the tiny coffin in the hole, the same way you put a sleeping baby slowly and carefully into his crib to sleep. And the mother threw in the first handful of dirt, and the world wobbled on its axis with the weight of that grief.
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