08/16/2013

   As odd as it may sound to say, I felt that Curtis's funeral was what he would have liked. The sanctuary was full to overflowing with mourners (latecomers had to stand outside), all the people we had chosen to give eulogies for our son did remarkable jobs with wonderfully touching and humorous anecdotes, the comments of the ministers were heartfelt and honest, the music was perfect. None of us were able to speak ourselves, although the ministers read messages from my wife and I as well as those from Casey and Carly. One highlight of the service (if a funeral can be said to have highlights) was the performance by Curtis's friends from the band. It may have been due to the setting and situation, but to me those kids played their hearts out in honor of their fallen bandmate. I remember thinking that I didn't think I'd ever heard them play that music better, even through their field tournament season the previous fall, even though that was several months before. I was so proud of them and amazed at their strength. I doubt any of them had ever before performed at a funeral, and I doubt many of them, if any, have ever had to do such a thing since. When they were done playing, I did what my first instinct demanded me to do. My wife and I rose to our feet and applauded. We wanted to make sure that these special young people knew how much their presence and participation in our son's service meant to us. It said about as well as anything could what an impact our son had had on the lives of others. No one in the band that day had been forced in any way to attend. They were there to honor Curtis and support all of us in the best way they knew how. What a fantastic group of young people! (Many of these students are still in contact with us to this day.) I suppose that there were some in attendance that day who thought our reaction might have been inappropriate for a funeral service, but I didn't care. I was beyond caring what other people thought about how I was handling any part of my son's death. What I've always appreciated about our son's service was how free I felt to respond any way I felt I needed to. There was laughter and humor. There were crying and tears. There was solemn, spiritual music as well as more modern rock-influenced songs. There was a sense of celebration regarding what a wonderful legacy and lasting memories this 14-year old boy was leaving behind, but there was also the acknowledgment of the magnitude of our loss. As the service ended, some of the people who had not made it to the visitation service the evening before began to file past our seats. We had informed the funeral director that we didn't think we could stand a repeat of the previous evening's greeting line, so he was prepared and quickly stepped in and ushered us out a side door of the church and into a small room where we would be out of sight of the other mourners. He then returned to the sanctuary and informed the crowd that those who wished to be in the processional to the cemetery should go to their cars. When most of the sanctuary was clear we returned to view our son's body for the last time. Standing beside Curtis's casket and gazing down at his face, I realized with bitter finality that I would never again be able to see him in the flesh. I wanted so much for this not to be true. I would have gladly given up anything in this life if it would restore my son to me.  If I'd been given the choice, I would have traded places with him in a second. But all I could do was stand there helplessly, tears dimming my vision, my wife crying beside me. How could I leave him this way? I was supposed to protect him. I don't really remember how long we stood there, but at some point we moved away and headed for the door. Behind us, I heard them closing the lid of the casket for the last time. My son's body was now forever out of my  reach. I'd never be able to touch him again. There was only one thing left to do. We got in the car and began processing to the cemetery.