TEARS ON MY FACE

We baptized and buried her 6-week old baby the same December day.  We met at the small cemetery chapel, and walked in toward the tiny casket, set gently on a small table in front.  It was a non-denominational -- no, non-religious -- chapel, built of dark stone.  No Christian cross, no religious symbols at all, so as not to offend.  Cold.

Her face was expressionless as she, her husband, and a few family members numbly sat down.  We had all gathered here, in this same comfortless place, barely one year before, to do this same thing for their firstborn son.  Baptize, then bury.

I poured the water I had brought from a small plastic bottle into the crystal bowl I removed from my canvas bag.  I lit two white candles.  Light against the darkness; flame against the cold.  There would be no hymns today.  No responsive readings.  No formal sermon.  It was just the six of us, after all, gathered to lay this tiny one to rest.  The promises of Jesus, St. John's vision of God wiping our tears away, the Sacrament of Holy Baptism, and a few prayers.  Just as we had done a year ago.  That was all any of us could manage.

It was good there were so few, as my own emotions kept my voice low and quiet.  I grieved as the mother stared blankly at the casket as I performed the ministrations of Word and Sacrament, offering what few words of comfort the Lord gave me.

As I baptized the infant, water and Word ran down his cold face, into his eyes.  A baby should object, cry when waters gets in his face.  Not a flinch.  No reflexive squeeze of his eyes.  It was all just so wrong.
Then, the quiet procession to the grave.  Everyone wanted to walk.  No one wanted to get there any faster than necessary; dreading, preparing themselves for what had to come next.  As I read the committal readings and prayers, the young father turned and walked about 25 feet away, his back toward the grave, eyes glaring at heaven.  He could not watch.  Not a second time.  He could not stand there as his second baby son was lowered into the ground next to the first.

"Let us go in peace."  The mother leaned down and numbly sprinkled dirt from the mound next to the grave, over her baby's casket.  It made a horrible, thudding sound.  The men picked up shovels and filled in the grave.  Suddenly, the mother emerged from her silence with a wail, and threw herself onto the mounded earth, pounding on it and crying in heaving sobs and groans.

No one tried to stop her.  No one could
.
Finally, she tried to stand again. Though a small delicate young woman, it took two people to get her on her feet.  It was done.  Her aging parents helping her, we began turning to walk back to the chapel and our cars.  She stopped, turned, and walked a few steps to me.  We hugged, and I held her as she went limp in my warms and wept.

Slowly, laboriously, we made our way to the car.  Her family helped her in, then quietly got in themselves, and drove away.

As I stood and gently waved, I felt something cold on my face.  I touched my face, and realized it was her tears on my cheek.  Sign and symbol of a simple parish pastor.