Paradise

It had just started to snow when I arrived at Tent City. There was a distinct sadness in the air: Minister Steve’s onsite assistant Cindy had just lost her father, and worse, in a very tragic manner.
I didn’t have much to offer in terms of words, but it meant a great deal to me to be present to her, give her a hug, share her grief. Residents rallied around her; some came by and offered a shoulder for her to cry on; some helped clear snow from her tent and walkway; others held off on asking for needed supplies just so they could honor her privacy. Minister Steve was there to comfort her, even in between two funeral services he was officiating. Cindy insisted on keeping busy, taking time to make phone calls, rest, pray, and mourn in between her tasks.

My dear friend is on a plane right now back home to South Carolina, and I awoke with the realization that my own father’s birthday is today. Had he not passed away when I was a freshman in college, he’d be seventy-one. And it’s easy for me to recall the friends and family who uplifted and supported me when I got the news, when I sat in a daze at his wake and funeral, and when I came back to school and, like Cindy, insisted that getting back into my normal routine was best. Just like Cindy, I was grieving. I’d sit in the campus chapel in between classes, or play the song “Tears in Heaven,” which was quite popular at the time, until both my eyes and the cassette were raw. I joined a support group, went on my very first weekend retreat, and forged bonds that have lasted for over twenty years.

And I believe such bonds were forged yesterday at camp as well, as many of our homeless friends shared the burden of her grief.

Eventually, a handful of them took refuge from the snow, gathering around the wood stove in the chapel. One commented how comforting it was just to sit there among friends, and another responded sarcastically, “yep, another day in paradise.” And then I had the Phil Collins song of the same name stuck in my head for the duration. Someone had brought in hot coffee and was passing cups of it around. They shared their own tales, from the sorrowful to the downright horrific. One man lost both his parents at a young age. Two people spoke of losing loved ones to suicide; one had a nephew who was murdered. And the two residents, Slavic and Mario, who passed away within a month of each other, were mentioned as well.

I thought of my father. I thought of friends my own age who’d died suddenly and tragically. I thought of the three students who died in a fire in my old college dorm fourteen years prior. I even thought of my aunt’s beloved dog, who died at the ripe old age of eighteen earlier in the week. I shared a little, but mostly I just listened.

But the mood wasn’t altogether somber or depressing. It was just people sitting together, keeping warm, sharing stories. Sharing grief. Sharing a part of ourselves that, whatever we believe about the afterlife, yearns to keep the people we’ve lost alive in some way.

Death does indeed connect people. Grief and loss are universal. Few reach adulthood without some pretty big holes in their heart they attempt to fill. Some try to patch up the surface, put on a smile, pretend they’re still whole. Some fill those holes with anger, feeling that person was stolen from them. Some try to drown them in alcohol or other substances, numbing themselves until they can forget the hole exists. Some fill them with faith, believing they will be reunited with their loved one after death.

But there is no denying that they are very, very hard to fill, save for a good deal of time, and the love and presence of those who care. I looked around that chapel, wondering who – if anyone – was present for my homeless friends in their time of loss. At least for some of them, it became clear to me that those loss-shaped holes are still wide open. For as those holes can be filled with time, love, and memories, they can also be ripped wider by loneliness, guilt, and despair.

Today, a piece of my heart remains with Cindy, her family, and all those who mourn the loss of her father – and with all those who grieve, for whatever reason, I send you my thoughts and prayers. Mostly, know you are always loved, and you are never alone.