Mrs. Mariner

Dedicated: Homan, Pete, and Mariner families

I love you all.

The day is hazy. Warm grass, painted gold with sunshine, carpets the earth, hiding the nakedness of the soil. Hands in our pockets, we skirt the edge of the churchyard, unwilling to step too closely to the gravestones, those granite molars thrust out of the earth – not today, when death has touched each of us so closely. Its jaws gape hungrily, seeking us all.

In the downcast eyes around me, I see the pain. What use is the madness of laughter and pleasure? What does a man have to show for the sorrow, the labor and striving of his heart, with which he toils beneath the sun? All his days are full of sorrow. His work is an exercise in futility. Even in the night, his heart cannot rest.

Only in the grave is there respite. Only in the arms of the Savior.

On this beautiful September afternoon, we have come to lay virtue to rest. We do not understand the design. The one who increases in knowledge only increases in sorrow. The more you know, the less you understand. But we do know that whatever God does endures forever. Nothing can be added to it, and nothing taken from it. He has done it so that people fear before Him.

He is God.

The loved ones gather close to the casket to comfort the comforter, to accompany the accompanier, one last time. Friends and family weep, but there is no grief to be found in their tears. There is no lasting pain.

Your dead shall live! Their bodies shall rise! You who dwell in the dust, awake and sing for joy! Ours is light and life, and the earth will give birth to the dead. There is nothing better for them than to be joyful and to do good as long as they live. Eat, drink, and take pleasure in all things. This is God's gift to man.

That was Mrs. Mariner. That is her legacy.

That is her family.

Together, we lift our voices, united as unique mourners: brothers and sisters who cannot help but smile at our pain.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.

There is a somber echo from the cemetery, from the canopy of bluest sky overhead and the ceiling of leaves darkening with autumn blood. The traffic on the nearby road seems to have halted to allow us this moment of solace and requiem. But there is no need for such accommodations. Joy is only vanity if it is rooted in the temporal, in this empty world of passion and possession. Together, our hearts echo the sentiment of the deceased, the one who has inspired love in the hearts of so many.

Do not urge me to leave you or to return from following you. Where you go I will go, and where you lodge I will lodge.

Nancy Mariner: your people shall be my people, and your God my God.

Was blind, but now I see.

END