I am sitting in my living room. It is quiet, except for the occasional creaking sound that seems to be brought on by the wind. My body is arguably idle, my brain is not. Today is the funeral for a friend named Ben, a person nearly the same age as me. As is often the case with me and death, it brings up memories of those already gone and causes me to consider my own mortality.

There are so many people that I miss. I can still picture my mother laying on the couch where I now sit, or my father emphatically sharing a story in the kitchen. I have a strong memory of my grandmother (who I called “Gran”) picking very-young-me up to go to Sudbury for a visit with her and Grandpa Bill. We went blueberry picking and then I washed off the purple stains on my hands by going for a dip in Lake Ramsay. Chocolate turtles and clementines always remind me of my paternal grandfather, because he gave us both every Christmas.

Recently, eager to show someone an old picture on my phone, I found myself scrolling by so many shots of Dale community members who are no longer alive. Chevy, Iron Mike, Mark, Clive, Ernesto, Sanchez, to name but a few. I remember Grumpy sitting in the bus shelter and greeting me with, “AHHHH. Did you know I’ve SEEN THE LIGHT? One of these days I’m going to teach you how to preach.” or Little Stevie calling out to me, “there’s my Erinn”. Sometimes my eyes play tricks on me and I think Will is coming around the corner by the library to have a chat on the sidewalk.

During a recent therapy session, my counsellor asked me to talk about some of the people I acutely grieve. I was invited to share about what a person taught me, or what I most remember about them, or how they made me feel. I was also safe to share about what drove me crazy, or even a difficult conversation we once had. Honouring a person doesn’t require remembering only the good. In fact, I think it is honouring to acknowledge the whole person, challenges and all.

I don’t know when my own time will come, or what that experience will be like. Despite being in proximity to death a lot, the whole thing remains largely a mystery. My faith causes me to cling to the belief that it is not the end- that there is more, and it will be beyond good. I like to picture my mom being freed of her wheelchair, or my Gran eating blueberries warmed in the sun, or any one of my friends who lived outside having the most comfortable bed to sleep on.

I have been asked to read two blessings at the funeral today for Ben. Both have a lot to do with light and how we bear it, even in the unbearable things. This part of one of the blessings leaps out at me: “I cannot tell you how the light comes, but that it does. That it will. That it works its way into the deepest dark that enfolds you, though it may seem long ages in coming or arrive in a shape you did not foresee.” (Jan Richardson)

I am about to drink another coffee, made with the machine that Ben first showed me how to use on a New Year’s Eve spent together with our families and friends. The wind continues to blow. I am still sitting and glancing out the window, I notice the sun trying to peek out. The light makes me want to both cry and smile. Whatever I feel, I cannot help but turn my face toward it.