Snow in April

brought back the memories today. The phone rang at 5:30 or so in the morning on Palm Sunday. I answered it and my mother said: "Bill, Joe's dead." What does one say at such a moment? If you are idiot like myself you say: "You're kidding, right?" She responded in anger: "Would I kid about a thing like that?" After getting off the phone I had to face Church. It was Palm Sunday - one of the most joyous days of the Church Year - and I was preaching. In fact I was preaching on the Old Testament reading from Zechariah: "Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion..." I went to Pastor Plvan when I saw he'd come to his office and told him. Wise man was silent. Said little, except: "Can you still do the service?" I didn't know if I could, but I thought I'd try. "Yes."

During the first half of the liturgy, as the majestic hymns rolled through the Church I simply lost it. Tears flowed without any check. Pastor, across the chancel was getting more and more nervous. The acolyte, who didn't know what was going on, looked shocked and concerned. The time came to get into the pulpit. God is good and gracious. I was able to preach on joy to the people and most left that day without knowing what had happened. I begged Pastor not to announce it because I knew I couldn't handle the sympathy and still make it through both services.

We told the youth group - for I was supposed to lead Bible class. They were unbelievable. They went into action, booking our flight, arranging to get us to the airport after the Cantata that evening.

The ride was awful. A small plane. Lots of turbulence. It seemed fitting. I think we arrived in rain, and Cindi's parents and grandparents were there, with a car for us to use. Then off to the apartment and facing the family.

The absolute worst of those days was when the funeral director would not allow us to see the body. He insisted it was too damaged. The car wreck had been vicious. I think to this day I was wrong not to have insisted. For years I was haunted by the conviction that he wasn't really dead; that he managed to get away and get out. I'd have the dream over and over again.

The funeral director asked for socks. We DID put down our feet on that. Joseph did not like socks and next to never wore them (he did for our wedding, but I wasn't sure until he showed up that he'd have them on). We insisted he be buried in shoes. They didn't have any. We wore the same size and the same shoe - always a penny loafer. I went across the street and bought a pair of shoes and returned and gave mine to my brother. His body is still wearing them, I suppose.

My sister-in-law asked me to do the burial. It was, I think, a Thursday. It was early April. And it snowed. A light snow - just a tad more than a flurry. And my little nieces were shivering in their Easter dresses with white sweaters. It was a short service.

I love my brothers and my sister; but I think everyone of us had a very special relationship with Joseph. He was the middle child of the family. He always thought *I* was mom's favorite and it used to drive him crazy - the poor boy couldn't see what all the rest of us knew: Joe was everyone's favorite. We all loved him, respected him, and wanted his approval. He always seemed so much more alive than the rest of us. He and I used to love to argue - intellectual kind of arguments. It would drive the rest of them from the room, but we could keep it going for hours and hours. My dearest memory of him is one night after work (I worked in the summers at his warehouse), we went out for drinks and dinner and then back to talk. We talked until the light grew in the sky again. One night. It was one of the best nights of my life.

Enough melancholy. I thought if I wrote about it, it might make it better, but I'm thinking that snow in April right after Palm Sunday is going to get me every time - until I lay down in the grave myself.

Memory eternal, Joseph! Memory eternal!