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We buried our Jewish friend David in a drenching storm on the morning before the first night of Hanukkah. He lived a long, productive life as an infantryman, public relations professional, journalist, father, grandfather, sportsman and civic activist.

We stood on a hillside as a fierce wind tossed the rain and shook the canopy. His plain wood coffin was lowered into the hole. The cantor explained that the rituals and prayers recognized our grief would not end immediately.

For instance, when we took turns tossing earth onto the coffin to help bury the body, at first we used the back of the shovel, minimizing the amount we could lift. We then threw in two regular shovelfuls. Rather than hand the shovel to the next person, we stuck it back in the heap of soil.

Both steps slowed the process down; we were not rushing to say goodbye. These and other touches kept us present to our loss rather than rushing to some quick and false closure.

Above, a leaden sky dumped yet more sheets of water. Yet above and behind that opaque ceiling, a sun shone in a gleaming sky.

That same night, Jews would light the first of their Hanukkah candles. The eight-day Feast of Lights recalls the rededication of the Temple in Jerusalem by Judas Maccabeus in 165 B.C. At the time, a short supply of lamp oil lasted miraculously for days in the Temple.

For our friend David, as the cantor noted, the juxtaposition was fitting. The day's darkness would be overtaken by light. Life would come back and David would live on in each of us.

That cameo illustrated our Advent, as well.

We live, especially in this season of anticipation, between anxiety and hope. So too, we pray in the coda to the Our Father: "...protect us from all anxiety as we wait in joyful hope for the coming of our Savior, Jesus Christ."

Current events and personal difficulties provoke anxiety daily in most of us. Yet hope comes and more is on the way. Advent captures that mix even in the less sacred aspects of Christmas preparation.

If we are lucky enough to have shopping to do and festivities to plan and attend, worry and rushing frazzle our happiness. If we're short on money or out of work, we strain to keep up our spirits and reassure our children.

On a spiritual level, our joyful faith is hedged by our distance from heaven. Christ is coming, but who's ready? He promised to always be with us, yet it is hard to live every day convinced of that truth.

The realists among us may argue that our hope is a delusion and that we must confront the hard facts of life. Yet life, absent God, is stamped out by death. Believer and atheist alike survive with some shred of hope -why else go on?

The Christian duty requires us to confront the facts of life and death. We can't reconcile earthly experience with God's kingdom but we must try. Even amid the fog of anxiety, we see Christmas lights ahead. We don't rush the passage though we do incline toward the goal.

David's gone and his body lies under six feet of earth. Yet his grandsons, even in their sadness at the cemetery, bear the promise of better days.

After filling the grave, we put down the shovel, step away and remain on earth. None joins him in the dark pit. Life calls us back.

(12/09/10) [[In-content Ad]]

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