To Be Grateful for Even the Smallest Touch

God willing, I plan to attend a funeral today -- a long-time member of the congregation I served.  I  officiated at the funeral of her husband what must be well over a decade ago, and it just feels right to attend.  It is an odd bond, but present nonetheless -- experiential threads of pastoral exchange and privileged moments woven over the years; dormant now, but still very present I discovered as I read her obituary in the paper. I can walk away, but not leave behind. 

That, I am discovering as I feel myself aging, is one of life's most treasured blessings:  what Frederick Buechner referred to as "a room called Remember," into which is crowded a wondrous population of faces and personalities, family and friends, parishioners and neighbors, transients and colleagues, adversaries and playmates, mentors and teachers; a village of idiosyncrasies, clowns, fools, geniuses, artists, loves and annoyances who, together by their presence in my memory or in my company, continue to fashion me into a person. 

I don't suppose we were particularly close, although we shared an affection and a discipleship that bridged the decades separating us in age.  We greeted one another among the pews.  I visited her when she was ill.  I comforted her, I hope, while she grieved.  Despite the ordinariness of our crossing, I wake up to discover her fingerprints on my life -- a discovery that prompts the notice of all those others alongside.

And so I'm attending her funeral.  At least in part to bear witness to her touch.  And to be grateful for it.