Passing

 I sat in a pew near the back of a Baptist church in East Oakland and thought about how much my father would have loved it. 

The call and response. The exhortation for amens. The singing. The sermons. The not-so-silent prayers. 

He was a fan of gospel. It made him get al misty-eyed. If he had been in attendance for my fifth grade colleague's memorial service, he would have been sobbing. 

As a result, I was moved as well. I could feel the spirit in the room as I nodded and swayed to the powerful cadences created by the reverend. I am sure that because, as we all discovered, Mister Lynch was also known as The Reverend Doctor Lynch that we were gifted with a series of preachers all of whom were there to pay tribute to their brother. The chapel was awash in all things holy. 

So I set my cynically agnostic brain on standby and let the warm glow of the proceedings fill my heart and soul. The past two weeks leading up to the service had been a struggle, filled with all the doubts and pain that grief present. All of which centered on the hole created by losing a member of our community. When the reverend asked those of us who had worked with The Reverend Doctor Mister Lynch to stand, a full two rows of us rose. I could feel the love and support of those in attendance rush over us.

Amen. 

I listened to the words. I felt the warmth that helped to soothe the confusion. I was a part of something much bigger, and I felt better than I had since I had gotten the call with the news. And at the same time I felt an associated burden, one of connection and responsibility to go out from this place and remember all the things that this man had been and done. 

And I thought of my father who left far too soon. 

And how much he would have loved this. 

Amen.