By Trish Cook.
I hate going to church. Especially funerals. I am only here in the hopes that my presence will comfort a hurting friend, not because I believe in this bullshit.
Sit, kneel, stand, cry.
Remember how losing a parent is like a having a body part amputated. How long the numbness where they used to exist lasts, how searing the pain is once the feeling returns. Remember why, ever since my dad died decades ago when I was twenty-four, I haven’t been able to sit through a religious service without getting angry, teary.
More pomp, more circumstance, more hollow promises.
Pray—to whom, I do not know—that my friend John, who has just lost his father and is the reason I grudgingly sit, kneel, stand, and cry today, finds comfort where I no longer do.
Wonder, as I have so many times since my own father’s funeral: Why would a loving God let us walk the earth so wounded? Lie so battered? Allow us to become so bruised, each and every one of us?