In Memory of Mikko

As we walk through a perfect summer day, our footsteps crunch on the gravel road. No one speaks. I only see the photographer snapping shots of our black-clad entourage following the casket as I glance at the rows of upright gravestones decorated with potted flowers and protected by low hedges. The sun beats down on black jackets, but isn't strong enough to dry the tears that keep running from reddened eyes. "...a good friend," I hear repeatedly as the impressive flower arrangements are placed over the fresh grave and I stare at fishnet stockings under a long black skirt.

I wonder what it's like for her to suddenly wake up in the morning, and not see him there after fourty-four years of marriage. I can hear in her voice that it is not easy, that it's lonely; that it has been good to have the funeral preparations to keep her busy, since silence and solitude can be such overwhelming company when they bring with them fresh grief and sense of loss. She tells how she spent the last days at the hospital by his side, holding his hand even as he slept, and praying together in his waking hours. Her voice cracks in the microphone as she says her thanks to those present, poised in spite of her sadness, but ending with hope.

All things should end with hope, for it empowers and is life-giving even in the face of death. For there is hope of seeing him again, because he belongs to the One who is the creator and sustainer of all life. To the One who redeemed human life through his Son. Hope anchored in the love of the Father is never misplaced, because even during the times that we feel we can't bear to put another foot forward, we can know that we are not alone. We are not orphaned or without comfort, because He is near to the hurting and brokenhearted.