The film Four Weddings and a Funeral premiered the year I completed my college education, and I vividly remember longing to leap into that enchanting world. It depicted somewhat awkward British singles navigating the intricate landscapes of love and grief, all while attending splendid social gatherings and staying in majestic castles and cozy pubs. Hugh Grant starred in his quintessentially charming, bumbling way, surrounded by a circle that seamlessly blended friends and family. At that time, it felt like an ideal portrayal of ordinary individuals grappling with the extraordinary weight of true love and loss.
Fast forward over twenty years, and I find myself blissfully married to my own floppy-haired soulmate, scandal-free as far as I know. We are blessed with three wonderful children, a large, boisterous extended family that brings us immense joy and just the right amount of chaos, and a supportive network of friends—both old and new—who provide us with laughter and strength. If I were to encapsulate our life in cinematic terms, it would be My Big Fat Greek Wedding—Egyptian style meets Steel Magnolias—Midwestern flair, sprinkled with a hint of Toy Story.
However, last week, my desire to dive into a Four Weddings and a Funeral scenario nearly materialized, just in reverse. In a rather peculiar twist of fate, I had to attend three funerals and a wedding within five days. First, I learned of my friend Carla’s mother passing after a long illness. Just two days later, another friend, Lisa, mourned her mother who bravely fought Alzheimer’s. The following day, I discovered that a former colleague, Mark, had lost his wife. Logging into social media felt daunting, as my feed was overwhelmed by sorrowful news.
To say the week was unusual would be like calling a flat tire a minor inconvenience. I balanced typical summer activities with my children, dropping them off at swim practice and vacation Bible school, rushing to finish my work, then changing from my casual mom attire into a black dress as soon as my husband, Jake, returned home. As I prepared to watch two daughters, now parents themselves, bid farewell to their mothers, tears welled in my eyes when my youngest, Sophie, hugged me tightly, saying, “Come back soon, Mama.”
In one of the week’s most surreal moments, we paused at the third funeral on our way to the wedding. Within an hour, we witnessed one man vow to love, honor, and cherish his bride until death, while another mourned that he had done just that. It was a poignant circle of life that could leave even Mufasa, in all his regal glory, feeling disoriented.
As Jake and I sat, hand in hand, at the wedding, it struck me that I haven’t attended many funerals throughout my life. Most of my grandparents and other close relatives passed away overseas. Growing up, my parents would lose close friends, but those funerals were always adult gatherings—not something discussed around children. Coming from a culture that excels at celebrating love, our gatherings often resemble a feast with over 500 attendees, indulging in sumptuous food, lively music, and joyous dancing. However, dealing with loss? That is where we struggle.
Recently, I attended funerals labeled as “Celebrations of Life.” This concept is challenging for me, because when grief envelops our community, darkness prevails. Laughter and light are scarce, and celebrations feel out of place. In funeral homes, silence dominates, interrupted only by tears and fervent prayers. Traditionally, widows and close family members don black attire for a full year after a loved one’s departure, sometimes even for life. Perhaps when you love deeply, the absence of that love leaves wounds that never fully heal. Yet, is there a way for love and loss to coexist harmoniously?
The poet Rumi believed that sorrow and joy are intertwined. He once wrote, “Sorrow prepares you for joy. It violently sweeps everything out of your house, so that new joy can find space to enter.” I pondered this sentiment the day after my whirlwind of three funerals and a wedding. That morning, I attended church with my family, where my youngest insisted we light a candle. Holding his hand, we touched a new wick to a flame from an already lit candle and watched as it flickered to life. His delight mirrored the moment your favorite film comes alive on screen, a fleeting instance where light and darkness dance together.
In conclusion, life’s tapestry is woven with threads of both joy and sorrow. Embracing both allows us to appreciate love’s depth, even amidst loss.
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