THE ELDER

“When you get married you don’t just go on living your single lives, you tie your lives together into something new. You never did that. You’re like two strings forced through the same ring but coming and going in different directions.” Eugene Donnelly used two shoestrings and his wedding band to illustrate the metaphor. “There is tension on the ring. If you continue like this, either the ring will break or you will. You see, there is no his life and her life once you put a ring on it; everything you do affects your spouse.

“There is no 50/50 marriage. When you let go of that foolish idea,” Eugene twisted the shoestrings together, “you become stronger together, a rope that will not break. There is no tension on the ring because you come from the same place, faith and love, and you are going to the same place, family and godliness.”

The young couple across his desk nodded as he spoke. The husband clasped his wife’s hand. They had a chance in Eugene’s estimation. After retiring as senior pastor, he had devoted himself to counseling. He could tell when people had the capacity and willingness to change. In this case, the husband had the willingness but not the capacity, and the wife had the capacity but not necessarily the willingness. If they kept coming each week, he could target those shortcomings.

He continued, “If you want to save your marriage you have to change how you communicate, you have to adjust your lifestyles to accommodate each other, and you have to make a budget together. Each of you will think that you are giving up more or being asked to change more than your spouse, but that’s okay. Do not compare your efforts; give 100% and see what happens. Are you willing to change to save your marriage?”

Once the couple committed verbally, he said, “You said it; you better mean it. We’re going to lay out some steps for next week,” there was a knock at the door, “and we’ll talk about how it went at our next meeting.” He called out, “Yes?”

Kevin, the associate pastor, poked his head in. “Oh, I’m sorry for interrupting.”

“What’s the matter?” Eugene asked. The look on Kevin’s face said that something was terribly wrong.

“Can I speak to you privately?”

Eugene handed the couple an index card. “Look over these guidelines for communication. I’ll be right back.” He pushed himself to his feet, grabbed his cane, and made his way out into the hallway.

Kevin was pacing. He led the old man around the corner. “It’s about your wife and grandson.”

Sasha, Eugene’s wife, was watching their grandson today. She had said that they were going to run some errands and then stop for ice cream. Eugene guessed, “Car accident?”

The young pastor wrung his hands. He nodded. “They died instantly, sir. I’m so sorry.”

“How do you know?”

“Your son has been trying to reach you. He called the church office.”

Eugene checked his phone. He had silenced it for the counseling session. Now, there were five missed calls.

“I’ll finish the session, so you can—”

“No,” Eugene objected. “I’ll finish it. I think I’m getting through to them. Don’t speak of this to anyone else for the next four hours.”

“But…” Kevin was shocked. “But, sir, you must—”

“Not ‘but sir,’ say ‘yes sir.’ ”

Kevin nodded. “Y-yes, sir.”

“I will not be here on Sunday, so you will have to do the responsive reading. Talk to Pastor Martin.”

“Yes, sir.”

Although images of his wife flooded his mind, Eugene hobbled back to his office. They had been married for 36 years; they had known each other for 42. He would mourn for her and for his grandson but not yet. The living took precedence over the dead.

“Sorry about that,” he said to the couple.

“Is everything alright?” asked the wife.

“Oh, life is never without trials.” Eugene sat down and straightened his vest. “What do you make of those guidelines?”

“They’re good,” the husband answered, “but hard. I definitely have not been speaking to Christie that way.”

“Knowing the guidelines isn’t going to change your conversations. You have to work at breaking down your bad habits, so be lenient and patient with each other. I’m going to give you rules for this week that will help you establish a better pattern for your interactions.”

It took a half-hour to wrap up the counseling session. The couple had asked some very good questions, which was a very good sign, and almost cried when he prayed with them. They left smiling, oblivious to their counselor’s pain.

Alone, Eugene prayed for his son and daughter-in-law. He knew their pain; he and Sasha had lost their first child as well. It would crush them. He prayed that they would not shake their fists at God but instead see the fragility of life and stop chasing meaningless things.

Then he entered the sanctuary. The worship team was rehearsing for the Sunday service. Kneeling at the altar, he thanked God for his wife and grandson and thanked Him that, if what Kevin had said was true, their deaths had been painless. He asked God for wisdom and love as he helped Peter, his son, and Camilla, his daughter-in-law, through this time.

Before the worship team moved on to the next song, he asked, “Can you do ‘Blessed Be Your Name?’ ”

“We did that one last week,” the worship leader said.

“I don’t mean for the service, just right now.”

“Um… Maybe after we finish the rehearsal.”

“Then don’t trouble yourself,” Eugene said and turned away. Back in the hall, he called his son and left a message: “Peter, it’s dad. I love you, my boy. I’m on my way.” He also sent a text: This is not your fault. It’s not God’s fault. It’s not just or unjust. It is a tragedy.

He pulled himself into his old pickup truck. Before driving off, though, he sang out, “You give and take away. You give and take away. My heart will choose to say, Lord, blessed be your name.”

He drove extra cautiously, never changing lanes. He knew that his reactions and judgment would be dulled by the intensity of his emotions. When he arrived, Camilla’s parents were already there. Her father, Horacio, answered the door, “Mr. Donnelly, I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Eugene could already hear the crying. He followed the other man toward the living room.

“Nathaniel was so young,” Camilla sobbed. “He didn’t deserve to die!”

Her mother sat next to her, arm around the younger woman. “Of course not, but we have to remember that Nathaniel is in a better place now.”

“It’s my fault. I should have been watching him. Sasha didn’t tell me that she was going to take him out on the road. She shouldn’t have been driving; she needed new glasses!”

Eugene acknowledged her, placing his palms together to say that he was praying for her, but did not intrude. Instead, he asked Horacio, “Where is Peter?”

“He walked off toward the bathroom, but that was five or ten minutes ago.”

Eugene continued down the hall. The door to Nathaniel’s room was closed, but the light was on. He knocked. “Peter?”

His tall, bearded boy opened the door. They embraced. “How are you taking it, dad?”

“I’ll miss them. I miss them already,” Eugene said, walking into the room. Toys littered the floor, some of which he and Sasha had bought for Nathaniel. “The love I had for each of them was so special. You know what it’s like to love someone that much. It becomes a unique, personal thing, something you can never experience again in this world.”

Peter put a hand to his brow, covering his eyes as more tears ran down his glistening cheeks. “Why’d they have to die?”

“They didn’t have to. People can steer their cars where they wish, and, when they collide, it is a mighty impact.” Eugene reached up to Peter’s shoulder. “Don’t look for any deeper reason. Life is fragile.”

Peter pushed away his father’s hand. “I can’t accept that. They can’t have died for nothing!”

“We all die for nothing. It’s what we lived for that matters. Think of the five years you had with Nathaniel. Was that nothing? Was your mother’s love nothing?”

“No, but…” There was anger amidst Peter’s sorrow. It almost surfaced, but, as Peter studied the doodles tacked to the wall, it was buried in grief.

“People think that they can lie to themselves to relieve their pain, conjure up some rationale to mitigate the tragedy, but it never works. It only drives the pain deeper.”

“Do you think they’re in heaven?”

Eugene didn’t give an opinion, reminding, “Only God knows the heart, and he judges each according to his ability.”

“How can you say that?” The anger bubbled up again. “You just lost your wife! How can you just go on?”

“Was being a husband the sum total of my life? Was being a father the sum total of yours? The scope of our lives shifts moment by moment, but going is always the same: you do the best with however much you have been given or however little you have left.”

There was neither an affirmation nor a retort. Eugene said, “Your wife needs you. Go to her. I’m going to talk to the insurance company. I’ll see you before I leave.”

“Okay,” Peter said weakly and trudged up the hallway.

Eugene went out on the porch where he wouldn’t be heard. Settling into a mildewed rocking chair, he called back the insurance company. He learned that the car was so mangled in the accident that the police couldn’t determine exactly what had happened. Sasha, it seemed, was partially at fault.

He spoke to Peter and Camilla together, reminding them that the five years they had with Nathaniel had been good. If they learned from that time and admitted where they had fallen short as parents, then the years they would have with their next child could be better, even if entirely different.

Eugene didn’t linger long, though. On the way home, he counted out-of-state license plates to keep his mind focused on the road. Pulling his truck into the garage felt wrong; he had always parked in the driveway and left the garage for Sasha. The house felt still because he knew that he now lived here alone. In the quiet, the clatter of his keys on the countertop was the clanging of cymbals. He had never lived alone. He had gone from his parents’ house to a dorm at seminary. He had roomed with other missionaries for a few years after that, rented an apartment when he got married, and then, finally, purchased this modest home.

He put his books in the office, picked up his most recent picture of Sasha from his desk, and then dropped heavily into the recliner in the living room. Finally, he turned his attention to his emotions and wept. It was time to grieve.

Come dinner time, he forced himself to eat a small meal. Come night, he got ready for bed but placed his pillow and sheets on the couch. He would start getting used to his empty bed some other time; tonight, he needed some sleep. He knocked himself out with two sleeping pills.

The next morning, Eugene went through his usual ritual, which started with ten minutes of seated exercises. Then he prayed and read his Bible. Another wave of grief hit as he ate his breakfast alone. He decided not to dismiss it, permitting the emotions to crash over him and flow through him. He let them wash away his dreams and plans for his future with Sasha. He let his hopes and expectations for Nathaniel dissolve. Then he returned to finish his bagel and tea.

He spent most of the day dealing with the aftermath of the crash: legal paperwork, insurance rigmarole, and funeral arrangements. It would be a joint funeral for Sasha and Nathaniel with no viewing; the bodies were mangled in the crash. He checked up on Peter and Camilla over the phone and sent a follow-up e-mail to the couple he was counseling. He needed to do the grocery shopping that Sasha had been trying to do, but not today. He wasn’t going out today. The lonely house disheartened him, though, so he distracted himself by preparing for his next counseling sessions, one with a family and one with a young man.

Still another wave of grief hit as he lay down to sleep. This one he dismissed. He wouldn’t mourn again until the funeral; it no longer served any purpose. Some of the condolence cards he received brought him to tears, though. At the funeral, he mourned enough to fully experience the memories that were shared in the ceremony.

Penelope, his daughter, had flown in from Connecticut with her husband, Bogdan Dumitrescu, and their girls. Eugene was delighted to see his granddaughters again. He sat with them during the ceremony, but, afterward, he made his rounds, greeting the other mourners. He barely saw Peter and Camilla, however; they were surrounded by Camilla’s family most of the time.

“You seem to be taking things well,” Eugene said, speaking to Horacio.

“I didn’t spend that much time with Nathaniel. I know it’s a poor excuse, but it was a bit of a drive out to their house. At least it felt like one; it was only forty minutes.” There was regret in the man’s tone, silly, baseless regret.

Eugene replied. “You have six kids, four that live in the area, and most are married with kids of their own. That’s excuse enough. You only have so much time to give.”

Horacio nodded, thankful for the understanding words. “You’re the one who seems to be taking things well. You lost your wife, but I hear you arranged this funeral.”

“People think they owe it to the deceased to mourn for a long time, but the deceased don’t care. If they love you, they want to see you doing well sooner rather than later. Other people think the amount they mourn is a measure of how much they loved the deceased, but mourning is a self-serving act; you can do nothing more for the departed. I am not beleaguered by these delusions.”

“That’s true. I think my daughter and your son are under one of those misconceptions.”

“Are you all going to get dinner after this?” Eugene asked.

“That was my plan, but…” Horacio gestured toward his wife and adult children. They still surrounded the mourning couple, piling sympathies upon sympathies. “Why do you ask?”

“Some of us are going to the Burger Shack in honor of Nathaniel; it was his favorite restaurant. I wanted to extend the invitation.”

Horacio’s gaze drifted back to his relatives. How could he suggest getting hamburgers at such a time as this? He would be seen as insensitive and uncouth.

Eugene saw the problem. “I’ll be the bad guy.” He inserted himself into the group beside Peter. “The Dumitrescus, Evers, and I are going to the Burger Shack in Nathaniel’s honor. Would you all like to join us?”

“I can’t do that,” Peter said as if it were an outrageous suggestion. “Nathaniel loved the Burger Shack! We have too many memories there.”

“That’s why we’re going! Don’t remember Nathaniel as a corpse—he’s not in that casket—remember him as a boy, a boy whose eyes got as big as saucers at the mention of the Burger Shack, whose exuberance spilled over and somehow made every burger in the world taste better.”

Peter couldn’t fully suppress a smile because it was true.

Eugene said, “You know where we’ll be if you decide to come.”

He strolled toward the exit at his slow pace. Bogdan was telling his girls funeral jokes. Penelope scolded him when she noticed Eugene coming their way: “What is wrong with you? Don’t joke at a funeral.”

“Why not?” Eugene asked. “Sasha loved bad puns. She taught me this one. At a funeral, a man asks the widow if he may say a word. The widow replies ‘Of course,’ so the man stands up and says, ‘Plethora’. The widow mutters, ‘Thanks. That means a lot.’ ”

Bogdan laughed. The girls cringed. Penelope put a hand to her brow and grumbled, “Oh my god, I remember her telling us that at grandpa’s funeral, her own father!”

“She said it at every funeral,” Eugene corrected, smiling wistfully.

They enjoyed their meal at the Burger Shack even though Peter and Camilla didn’t come. Back home, Eugene helped Penelope and her family settle in. They would be staying three nights, and he had spent all morning getting the house ready. He retired to his room, exhausted. That was when his phone chimed three times. It was a series of texts from Peter:

Thanks for planning the funeral. I didn’t understand The Deep. I thought it was the esoteric equivalent of acting tough. I get it now. It’s about being big enough to embrace truth even when it doesn’t feel right, big enough to experience everything without being crushed. I wish I had listened. I feel like a speck.

Eugene texted back: My boy, if you try to live fully, you will find that you’re not as small as you think.