Next in Line

Henry didn't ever say much. Classic long and lean, always jeans and boots, he looked far from the skillful lawyer that he really was.  He liked the early morning "contemporary" service  (even though he often said it wasn't so much contemporary as a "slice of 1988 musically").  I don't think he sang, just attended and listened.

He would enter, give a very short wave, and take a seat.  Except on this particular Sunday.  He came and stood by me, saying nothing, for a long 5 minutes, watching people walk by and find their seats before service.

My mother had died, and the service had been during the week since I'd last seen Henry.  His mother had died the year before.  I felt his hand on my shoulder, then Henry said:  "I know how you feel.  Now you're at the head of the line, aren't you?"  He patted me on the back and took a seat.

In that moment, I knew that at least one person in the world totally understood just exactly where I was.  There had been lots of condolences, lots of strong and faithful things said, many good remembrances of her life shared. But Henry knew how it felt.  I had moved to the head of the line.  I was now on the escalator, with no one ahead of me, moving to the end of it.  And it was o.k.  Jesus did it, too, and accompanies us, and takes out the fear. But there is a "first moment" when we realize that we are the next in line.

I see lots of folks dealing with grief and death.  Some of them share intimate thoughts, some erect fierce barriers to keep all the feelings in (and the realities out, I think).  Some of them want to be known, some not.  But for the rest of my time, I'm grateful for Henry, who didn't say much, except for the one time it truly mattered.