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On Saturday afternoon, I received a shocking e-mail from the woman who serves as "communications central" for our choir: the daughter of one of our alto section leaders had died of a drug overdose. The news made me feel sick inside, because the girl's mother had just recently remarked about how well her daughter was doing, back in school, singing in the college choir, and doing well. Now this.
The next morning, a solemn group assembled to rehearse for the upcoming service. By a strange bit of synchronicity, our director, who chooses music a month in advance, had scheduled two unusually somber anthems. They fit our mood perfectly; we would have choked on "Sing Joyfully" or anything like that.
The sad news was announced during the service, and afterwards, parishioners came up to choir members and asked for details. Everyone was aghast to hear what had happened, because this section leader has been with the choir forever, and her two daughters had both been active in the parish.
On Monday night, we received word that the funeral would be on Wednesday afternoon, and that the choir would sing three anthem's chosen by the mother: "How Lovely Is Thy Dwelling Place" by Brahms, "In Paradisum" from the Duruflé Requiem, and a setting of the 17th-century poem "Never Weather Beaten Sail."
We had all wondered what we could do for the family, and my section leader and another member of the choir came up with the idea of putting on the reception after the funeral, because the family members weren't up to the task. Some of the choir members bought and prepared the food and recruited some non-choir members to do the final setup.
I woke up on Wednesday dreading the day. The prospect of participating in a funeral service for someone so young (for the second time since joining the choir) seemed thoroughly depressing. Yet when I showed up at church, I found that all sorts of former choir members had come to sing, some of them even from other states. Also in attendance was the college choir that the young woman had been part of. Clearly, the family had a lot of connections who had come to support them in their grief.
The funeral service was Rite 1 (the archaic language version) from the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer with a Eucharist, interspersed not only with our anthems but with two anthems by the (excellent) college choir and thematically appropriate pop songs by the young woman's sister. (I don't know how she could sing under the circumstances.)
There's something profound about a traditional funeral, with 3,000-year-old psalms, 2,000-year-old readings, and 500-year-old (or older) prayers. These elements make me feel united with everyone throughout human history who has mourned.
The sermon, given by a priest who himself once lost a child to death, was simple, unsentimental, and filled with reminiscences of the young woman and admonitions to the family and friends not to feel guilty.
During the Eucharist, most people came forward, passing between the choir stalls on their way to the altar. When the college choir members filed past, some of them gasped or started to cry as they passed by the table where the ashes and a photograph of the deceased stood. It was as if her death just became real to them at that moment.
The service ended with the clergy and family processing to the columbarium downstairs and the choir processing out in silence through another door.
Despite the utter tragedy of the situation--the death of someone who had a lot going for her but couldn't overcome addiction-- the service was beautiful and serene, and the love that surrounded the family was palpable.
I'm still trying to process it.
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