The funeral for the young man who died was hard. Very hard. My daughters went with me, as they, too, had known him. We went early as I thought there might be a lot of people. There were. I found my elder daughter's observation interesting. She said she had never noticed so many similarities between weddings and funerals… the music is the same in many cases, candles being lit, the food. My son was a pall bearer so we weren't sititng with him and didn't see him or his fiance' until afterwards. When I did see him, all I could do was hug him and want to hold on tight. The young man's uncle spoke, as well as his elder brother. I understand the willingness to want to say something at the funeral, but I've never been able to fathom how these people can say such moving things and keep their composure. I was only listening and was moved to tears. When his brother turned to the casket and asked if he would still be the godfather to his youngest child… well, it was the gut-kicker.

A parent burying a child. That's just not the way it is supposed to go. It messes with the natural order. I have to believe there is "something" more out there… and that there is a plan. I have to believe we will see those who have gone on before us… human and critter… again. It's what keeps me going in times of grief. Still? I cannot speak for those who have lost a child. As heartbroken as I was for the family, his friends, and the loss of such a good, sweet, successful young man… I was so overwhelmingly grateful it wasn't one of mine. Somehow I think I should feel guilty about that… but I can't bring myself to get rid of that thought. Thank you, God. It was not one of mine.