Tell Their Story

 “Tomorrow there’ll be more of us, Telling the story of tonight”

This snippet of a song from Hamilton runs through my head on a loop. The Hamilton of that particular moment expected that one portion of this story to be told, the victory of him, Lafayette, Laurens and Mulligan. But that one moment only represents part of the story of Hamilton and his friends. No one night summarizes anyone’s life.

We just lost a dear friend to COVID. If you ask me to tell a story of Dennis, it doesn’t really come to any one night. I can remember certain moments, and conversations, but in reality what I remember is the arc of his life, the bent toward justice, kindness and compassion. It takes the whole for any one part to make sense. His laugh, his sparkling eyes, his welcoming presence, all fit together in endless moments of memories to form the essence we remember about him.

Like George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life, it’s not about a particular moment, but a life well lived, impacting more people than can be imagined. After Dennis died, the family received a barrage of notes, with stories they had never heard of people he had helped that they were not aware of. And only heaven has the full tale. That’s the real place our story fully reveals itself.

When I watch the play Hamilton, I don’t cry where I expected to, but always at the end when his wife sings the remix of this song, and says she’ll tell his story. Those left behind are charged with that responsibility. And after all Alexander and Eliza went through as a couple, his betrayal in so many ways, she still tells his story with love and commitment. So we lift up our loved ones, despite their foibles, and remember the impact they had on us and the world.

Dennis, we’ll tell your story friend.

Elisha and Grief

When we read the story of Elijah and Elisha in 2 Kings 2:1-12, we normally focus on the dramatic exit of Elijah in a chariot toward heaven. When this reading, part of the lectionary, fell on the Sunday after losing a dear friend that Friday, I heard it as a grief story.

The story begins with Elijah telling Elisha to stay behind while he goes to a different place. Elisha however refuses to leave his side. Like Sam following Frodo, he faithfully follows his master to Bethel. When they arrived, the other prophets ask Elisha if he knows the Lord is taking his master today. Elisha does know, but tells them to be quiet. Elisha is in denial.

The sequence repeats itself, with Elijah trying to leave Elisha behind while following the Lord to Jericho, but Elisha again refuses to leave him. Again the local prophets mention Elijah’s impending exit, and Elisha tells them to be quiet. Still in denial.

Finally the Lord sends Elijah to the Jordan, and Elisha refuses to leave his side. Fifty prophets watch the proceedings, but only Elisha accompanies his master across the river. From there the chariot of fire appears and takes Elijah away, but Elisha cries out after him. Then Elisha sees him no more, and tears his garment in two. His grief works out in his response, as he tears his own clothing.

Denial. Grief. Pain. But still faithfulness to the journey. Elisha could have stayed behind, avoided the coming reality, but he remained faithful to his friend. When someone we know is dying, we may want to hide from that journey, to avoid our own pain. It’s harder to lean in, to stay in the hurt and walk toward the inevitable. But so worth it. Every Frodo needs a Sam, or many of them, as they near the end.

And even if we don’t have this dramatic ending to witness, being present when a loved one dies, whether we can do it in person, or simply stay as close as possible as the situation allows, offers a true gift to that loved one and to ourselves. We may tear our clothes afterward, but we will have been a faithful companion on a journey we will always remember.