The machine prints out the programs like clockwork. They line the tray, mirror images of each other, one after another after another. On the cover, the face of a young man - healthy, full of life, a friendly smile. I've never met him, but I've looked at his photo so much today that I know I'd recognize him if he walked through the door...
...but he won't. At least, not here.
Kneeling beside the copier, I scoop up the programs and lay them gently in the box. I wish I had something softer, something with fabric and smooth corners. There are already too many sharp edges. I wish I could place them directly into the hands that loved, the hands that cared, but that won't happen until Saturday.
Copy, fold. Copy, fold. Three hundred, four hundred, five...
How can this be?
How does one so strong become one so frail? Twenty-seven: the same age as my brother. They, too, have a baby on the way.
What words can bring comfort?
Who can know what it is to suffer the stabbing, piercing loss and separation, and celebrate the Life, whole and healed for all time? Who can know the gut-wrenching pain of a wife, a mother, a father? Of grandparents? Of brothers and sisters and uncles and aunts and cousins and friends? Who can know?
Words fall flat - insufficient, trite.
This is sacred ground.
What is there to do but wrap arms and hearts around, offer shoulders for leaning and to lift the weight, and give glimpses of grace, of beauty, and of Christ?
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