Beautiful Services to Honor a Beautiful Life

“Are you nervous, Dad?” I asked on our way to the funeral home Monday morning. My insides were swirling and I was beginning to wonder if anyone else in the car felt the same way.

“No,” Dad casually replied. He seemed calm enough.

“How about you, Spencer? Are you nervous about dressing Chad?”

After a brief pause he said, “I gotta be honest, I’ve never done it,” his statement not directly answering my question, yet alluding to feelings similar to mine.

Jon, Dad and Spencer would be meeting Stuart and Amy’s dad, Robert, at the funeral home to clothe Chad in his sacred temple robes for burial. I wasn’t sure I was ready to see my brother, but I also understood it was inevitable. I was riding along so that I could help prepare the funeral home’s chapel for the viewing that would be taking place later that night.

My nauseousness only intensified when I walked into that chapel. It was dark, confined and had a fair amount of random, tacky décor like a silk rose resting on a velour table cloth and gaudy gold candlesticks with red, glass candle holders. Hundreds of chairs were arranged in tight rows with a podium at the front, as if the room were set up for a formal service. This just wasn’t going to do. Chad’s death was an utter devastation, but the last thing he would want--or any of us wanted--was for people to come to his viewing, sit in confined rows and cry in solitude and somberness. Friends and family would be coming from far and wide. We knew we needed an arrangement more conducive to visiting and reuniting. We would mourn, of course, but this was to be a gathering of friends and family mingling and supporting one another in grief.

The funeral directors thought our request was strange, but we asked them to remove most of the chairs and the rest we arranged in semicircles at the edge of the room to create a large open space. We opened some room dividers to make the chapel seem even more spacious and rearranged other furniture as well. We played with the lighting and put away their décor. I set up the photo boards and other memorabilia in the foyer. Finally, it seemed acceptable and ready for the viewing. Then I saw Stuart come take Amy by the arm.

Chad’s dressing was complete and Amy was going in the room to place Chad’s wedding ring on his finger. She asked if I wanted to come with them to see him. I didn’t. I wanted to run. I wanted all of this to be a bad dream. I wasn’t ready, but I knew I never would be. There was never going to be a better time, so I linked my arm around Amy’s and walked into the room.

“Oh Chad!” I wailed. It was suddenly all so much more real. “Oh Chad!” I continued in my sobs. I placed my hand on his cold arm and was struck by how angelic he looked. With not one stitch of make-up, his complexion was absolutely perfect. While mentioning how good I thought he looked, I watched my dad break down for the first and--to my knowledge--only time.

“He looks so much better than the last time I saw him,” (referring to the horrific moments in the ER the day Chad died) was all he could say as he tried in vain to regain control of his emotions. Moments later, Mom and Erin arrived. More tears and wails of grief ensued as we literally clung onto each other. For me, this moment was simultaneously peaceful and unbearable. My brother was angelic in life. Truly. And he looked that way in death as well.

I’ve come to learn that grief is accompanied with a desire for the world to just stop turning. If only for a moment. It seems so unfair that the rest of the world goes on when yours has come to a temporary and excruciating halt. This was one of those times. But a few frantic errands still needed to be run and Caleb needed to be picked up from the airport. We returned for the viewing a couple of hours later and in time for me to affix the large vinyl “Y” logo to the top of Chad’s casket. It was so fitting for the super fan that he was in life.

Hugs, tears, laughter and reuniting filled the room that night. Friends and family came from far and wide to pay respects and bear us up. At one point my cousin Scott, who’d traveled a great distance, sat me down and asked me to survey the room that was teeming with love. He said, “I look around this room and the way I see it, Chad was the richest man in Yakima.” Not rich by monetary standards, but rich in the amount of positive influence on others, exactly the kind of riches that we get to take with us when we leave this life. Young, old and everything in between, Chad impacted countless lives for good.

After a couple of hours, the remaining visitors were asked to leave so that we could hold our family prayer. Amy’s father, Robert, offered the most beautiful petitions and sentiments. One line will live in my memory for the rest of my life:

“Chad was good enough already.”

It resonated powerfully in my heart. Yes, he was gone too soon, far sooner than any of us were ready, but he was that good. Good enough to have already passed his mortal test, to be called home to do a heavenly work. Something big. Something only he could do. Something that I’m curious to discover one day.

Mom, Dad, Erin, Amy and I held each other as we approached the casket one last time, our sorrow unrestrained. As long as I live, I will never forget the feeling of the slight stubble of his bald head in the palm of my left hand as I lightly touched him for a final goodbye. Nor will I ever fully heal from the heartbreak of closing the casket lid.

We all met at the cemetery the following morning for Chad’s burial. It was a beautiful June day. His casket was carried to his resting place, Dad offered the dedicatory prayer and then we took turns placing a white rose atop the casket. The ceremony was short and simple, but we stayed at the cemetery for quite some time because it was hard to leave Chad there. Every step of this process emphasized the finality of it all and the pain defies description.

Many instances felt surreal; the shock of the reality too new to fully register. Gathering in the Relief Society room to wait for the afternoon service to begin was one such example of this. Was this really happening? How is this possible? My part in the service was minimal, but I wanted all of the proceedings to be perfect. Chad deserved that. So I felt nervous and antsy as the minutes ticked slowly.

Finally, we were led into the chapel that was filled with people who loved Chad, Amy and our family. At least three people would report that they heard Chad singing during the opening hymn. He always sang with gusto, so it seems reasonable that he would join in. Everything about the service was perfect. Professional quality musical numbers were shared, Erin’s life sketch was a combination of humor and honor to our remarkable brother and Jon’s talk reminded us of eternal truths and a Plan of Salvation that will allow us to be reunited with Chad someday. We laughed, we cried and we felt deep gratitude for all who came to support us.

The Relief Societies from two different wards put on a very nice luncheon for us after the service. We were able to visit with many loved ones and when it was finally time to go, we wanted to visit some more. We had a few close friends come to the house that evening and continued to laugh and cry and tell Chad stories. He always loved a party. He would’ve loved that gathering.

Life will never be the same. We can feel comfort, peace and even joy, and yet, until we are finally able to see Chad again, we will always be at least partially broken. He leaves a massive void that no one else can fill. I once heard an analogy that compared the loss of a loved one to an amputation. If we were to lose a limb, we could survive. We could adjust to life with one less arm or one less leg. We would have to relearn how to do things that were once easy, there would be pain and suffering, but we could go on. But the arm or leg never grows back. It is impossible to return to what used to be. Does time heal all wounds? If “heal” means that our ability to cope increases, then maybe. If it means that that wound no longer exists, then no, times does NOT heal all wounds. Complete healing will have to wait for a world in which time is no longer measured.

Chad is and will forever be missed by the rest of us who continue to struggle through mortality. Every moment of every day.