A.’s brother messaged me last Thursday and told me that him, her mum, and a few of her closest friends would be spending the whole of Saturday at her apartment in Tartu, cleaning and packing. I was welcomed to pop by for a chat, he said. I would not have missed this for anything. So me and K. drove to Tartu that morning, and the closer we got to Tartu the sicker I felt in my stomach. I didn’t know what to expect or how seeing her place would affect me, neither did I know how long I should stay there. Is it just a formal visit to pay my respects? Is it something else? Long story short, I ended up staying there for four hours. And it may sound eerie but it was a wonderful day. It was a day of much needed closure and peace. I helped as much as I could. We went through all her closets and shelves and drawers, we sorted and packed and threw away, we kept important things, we reminisced. We cried a little but we mostly laughed, and the whole bunch of people I had either never seen before or had not seen for a very long time became unusually close.
The picture of the apartment was sobering, of course. She still had food in the fridge, and clothes drying, her work stuff and handwritten notes all over her desk together with her laptop. And all the other things as well – I had never seen, let alone gone through someone’s things like this. Methodically. All her life, just there for everyone to see. Only she herself was missing.
I came home late that evening and looked around in my own apartment with changed eyes. And it wasn’t some pious „Oh, vanity of vanities, these things don’t mean anything“ thought. Some of my things mean a great deal to me. It was more like, „Hmm, I wonder what books they’re going to keep and which preaching dresses they’re going to chuck out when my life is over and my family are packing my things.“ Ever since that Saturday, I have been eyeing my things with a new sort of curiosity. I have never known this feeling before.
And yesterday we said our goodbyes and laid her to rest. I knew it would be a very small and private gathering so I didn’t entertain any hopes of being there myself (her family had only a vague idea of the closeness of our friendship). But her mum asked me to speak at the funeral service which was – except for my five minutes – a non-Christian service. I have never felt more honored and touched by a speaking invitation. Never. Of course I’ll come, of course I’ll speak! But then followed a couple of days of almost utter desperation. Because I have never felt more inadequate as a preacher. Usually words and sermons just pour out of me. But not this time. I wrote and rewrote, I thought and changed my mind, I sweated and in the end I actually cried. Out of sheer frustration for not being able to write down words more meaningful or eloquent. I wish I could have done better for A. But I did what I was capable of and spoke the words I had in front of her open casket. It was bloody horrible and yet, so soothing.
We ended the day at her mum’s, eating loads of take-away food and laughing even more, and together with her family and three closest friends, I felt like I belonged to A.’s world in a whole new way. I don’t know what they thought of me – I was the odd minister who didn’t drink wine with them and who asked for a vegetarian dish – but for me, it was as if a new shoot had sprung up from the place where only a dead stump used to be.
I think that’s the main reason I believe in the existence of God. Because He is, new beginnings replace dead ends, new shoots replace old stumps, and new joy replaces loss and grief.
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