A few weeks ago I dreamt that I was going to spend the night on my apartment balcony. As I nestled into my sleeping bag and looked out at the twinkling cityscape, something about the sky looked really weird. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. The stars began to sparkle, shining even more brightly than that ugly, yellow, light pollution haze that's draped every night sky I've known. The more intently I gazed at the stars, the more brilliant and numerous they became. Everywhere I looked, constellation after constellation filled the sky, dare I say danced? It was wondrous and wonderful. 

Then Dream Me realized that urban camping is not a thing (because, you know, cucarachas) and quickly went back inside, stealing one last glance before closing the sliding door behind me. 
--

Seven years ago this month, I got an urgent email from my pastor at the time. It was a forwarded message from someone in our small, ethnic collegetown church. It stated, with grief and almost disbelief, that a family in our congregation had been contacted by local police. Officers believed the body of their teenaged daughter had been found. Our pastor asked us to meet at the church a few miles from campus for an emergency prayer meeting. 

A few hours later, several of us piled into a classmate's car as it warmed up in an icy apartment parking lot. Someone broke the silence --was it confirmed? Yes was the reply, followed by more silence.

We gathered at the church basement, where our pastor shared with the group that indeed, the young woman had passed away. We prayed for the family, for a miracle if God so willed, and we mostly sat and stared. A few of us remembered the last time we'd seen her, recalled her pleasant personality, asked questions about what would happen next.

That point onward into the next few weeks was a blur. Midterm exams, sifting through memories, conversations with friends, wondering about the heaviness we were facing and how the family must be feeling. At the time I coordinated the music for our worship service of maybe a few dozen, so the family asked me to arrange the set list for their daughter's funeral. I approached some friends to get a group together, violin, piano, soloist. Together we set about what seemed an impossible task --worshipping in the midst of utter heartbreak. 

The young woman was seventeen at the time of her passing. I was scarcely older than she. We had spoken in passing from time to time over the years. One summer we were awkwardly set up on an ice cream outing to see if we could be friends. We tried to be polite as our inviter prodded us with rather serious and unsubtle personal questions. Our mutual efforts to stifle laughter at the palpable uncomfortableness with the whole thing seemed to be the only thing we had in common. Those were the sparse moments I shared with her. And now she was gone. 

The family requested a few songs that were especially meaningful to them. I pored over keys and lyrics and arrangements, mostly a mix of YouTube and iTunes to get it right. The lot of us practiced together and in subgroups, as our schedules allowed. A friend and I worked to piece together the instrumental solos over a old dorm lounge piano. Frustration set in. The key we were practicing was too high for my range, and she noted the same. At that moment I burst into tears; she apologized profusely. I told her I just couldn't do it-- not the song, but maybe all or any of this. How could anything I arranged or played hold a candle to this weight, the heaviness of death? She told me it'd be okay, that God would provide. We took it from the top and tried again. 

When the day of the funeral finally came, I went early to the venue, another local church that could better host the several hundred expected attendees. I walked around the glistening snowy grounds to clear my head a bit before the biting cold forced me back inside. A few middle aged women, presumably friends of the family, were arranging refreshments. They said hello and asked me what I was doing. I sputtered out something like "Music...but I feel completely inadequate" before bursting into sobs. They embraced me and reassured me I would be fine. 

I went back upstairs and looked over my music stand. Behind the sheet music with my scribbled notes were two additional papers I printed out: prayers. Prayers of friends who felt the enormity of the task at hand, wrote me from all corners of the country and world, and let me know I would not be alone. I would not be alone in my grief, because my Savior knew. I would not be alone in my small service, God would sustain me. I would not be alone in my feelings of inadequacy, my Father would prepare the way as I stepped out timidly. 

I drew a deep breath, squinting at the bright and steady lights overhead and blinking red light of the video camera straight ahead. The rows behind the front where her family sat were filling steadily. Line after line of black winter overcoats. The faces were mostly those of young college students, with relatives here and there. Some were familiar to me; most were not. 

And so, we sang. We led the room in melody. We sang of praise, of redemption, of resurrection as the notes hung heavy before us. We sang of hope, even as our hearts wrestled within. 

Red brake lights dotted the road as the parking lot emptied for the night. The service had concluded, but the weight lingered. "Could I maybe eat dinner with your family tonight? I...I don't really want to be by myself." My pastor and his wife smiled warmly, helped me squeeze the guitar case into the trunk, and took me to their home. 
--

Perhaps my sleeping, swimming mind put into sights and sounds what my heart desires: a time when all that those distant, veiled glimmers of light come to life. When, as Tolkien writes, everything sad becomes untrue. 

Note: A helpful and relevant article