The Funeral
Annemarie's coffin was rolled down the center aisle of St. Matthew's. Teo held Anne's left elbow; her daughter-in-law, Jean, Bob Jr.s wife, was on the right. Deirdre and I were seated in a row near the back of the church. I heard her sniffling. As the priests took the altar, she asked me if I had a tissue. I did not. She dabbed at her nose with her suede gloves. I thought she had a runny nose.
The Mass was concelebrated. The pastor of the parish, a man who speaks with a brogue, was in a minor role. I assumed that the priest who officiated had known Annemarie, and had been invited to say the Mass. His sermon was, for the most part, a generic reflection on us all being reminded of our own mortality, but he did sprinkle in references to Annemarie's work with the Red Cross. He also made an allusion to our having seen the backside of the tapestry that was Annemarie's life - loose threads and “patchwork quilts” - that on the other side formed a beautiful picture. I thought this probably resonated as true with the people who knew Amber well. But wouldn't it resonate for any one of us? Perhaps that's the point.
Then there were more prayers. Deirdre leaned over and asked me when communion was going to be.
“No one needs to see me like this,” she said, her voice cracking. “I think I'll slip away when everyone gets on the line.”
She had pulled her hat low on her forehead. I tilted my head and looked up and could see that tears were streaming down her face. She swiped her face with her gloves again. I gave her the keys to the house. (We never used to lock the door, but we started to after Carrick skipped out of her last rehab. We were her easiest mark.) Deirdre did leave during communion. She said later that the funeral was like a kick in the gut; she felt like she was glimpsing the future.
After the service, Bob, Jr., delivered a very moving elegy in the form of a “Dear Amber” letter. It was about a typical, loving American family coming of age in the Fifties and Sixties. He spoke of Amber being the first girl in the family after three boys, and how she really didn't have to walk around with a six-shooter and call herself “Walter” to fit in with her siblings.
He remembered the time she cut off a chunk of her flowing red hair, making a joke about he wished he had it for his own balding pate. No one laughed though; levity could not penetrate the thick somberness we all felt.
He talked about how much the family had hoped for a medical breakthrough, “or a miracle,” during those last five days in the hospital.
I was reminded once again how hard we keep hoping against hope with Carrick, who we had learned had contracted Hepatitis C.
Finally, Bob concluded by relating how he'd dug up a line on the Internet that had haunted him since he first heard it, in that same church, several years before. It was from a Viewpoint column that John Cardinal O'Connor had written from the hospital, where he was undergoing tests, for Catholic New York. Before he got to the line he'd looked up, however, Bob read liberally from the piece.
“One reflects on one's failures, one's imperfections, one's hope of what one might have done and perhaps failed to do or should not have done and perhaps did,” was one line that caught my attention. Then the Cardinal quickly reflected on evil, goodness, life, death and faith in a way that only a fervent believer, with a massive body of doctine to bolster him, can pull off. Then came the line that had stuck in Bob's head:
“But God writes straight with crooked lines and only he knows what the next moment will bring.”
I wasn't sure what to make of the first half of the sentence, although I got the general drift. When I got home and Googled “God writes straight with crooked lines,” the first hit was for a hand-cast bronze plaque inscribed with the phrase. It cost $239. Text accompanying a picture said that the phrase is “a paradoxical Portuguese proverb, first attributed to a Sixteenth Century Portuguese bishop, that has appeared over the centuries in the writings of many spiritual thinkers and writers. It serves as a reminder of the role of faith in our lives. Out of evil, good can come... “
The phrase was also the title of a sermon by a Methodist minister, Dr. Michael B. Brown, about the New Testament Book of Philippians, which he called “St. Paul's Love Letter.” Brown interpreted the line thusly: “God has an amazing capacity for taking bad circumstances and creating blessings - or for taking imperfect people and creating ministry.”
I don't know how religious Annemarie was, but she immediately struck me as having the divine fire of a zealot who had been stuck from her horse by a lightening bolt. It will always be one of the regrets of my life that I didn't get to talk to her for many more hours.
If you knew Amber, I'd love to hear from you. Let me know how she touched your life.