The Last Car

It's strange, but whenever I cry slow tears, they always fall from the left eye. I tried to wipe them away inconspicuously as I looked up toward the front at Staci. She looked particularly beautiful, stunning actually, like she had gussied up to embark on an anniversary cruise, not watch a preacher speak comforting words over a casket. The sanctuary where we were gathered seemed like all there was to the world last Saturday. Birds could be heard chirping outside between carefully chosen ballads as the soft glow of Spring sunlight flooded the room through amber windows.

Even from my pew near the back of the opposite side, I could read her thoughts. She is my friend and I know her well. It pained me so deeply to know that the one person she longed to have tell her everything would be all right was her daddy, and he was not there, despite the longing in her eyes that yearned for him to return just long enough to help get her through the next hour. I've known Staci now since our boys met as Cub scouts in Kindergarten, seven milestone-packed years ago. In that time I have heard countless stories about Jim Gazaway, and every single one of them were told with a reminiscent smile.

Just 5 1/2 weeks ago, I finally met him for the first time. Jim and I had both come to see Staci's new home. She and her husband had just moved back to their rural childhood town where her parents no longer live. Our connection was instant and comfortable, just as it was when I met Staci herself. There is something so likable and easy about every single one of her family and they've always considered me just one of them. I felt almost like a school girl receiving needed praise that day when he shook my hand and asked Staci how she managed to have friends just as pretty as she is. I admired how he lavished her with such loving compliments, even though his pride in her was so obvious without them.

A week and half later, Staci called me crying. They had taken "Daddy" to the hospital the night before for a headache that wouldn't stop and they had come home with a stage 4 cancer diagnoses. But he had not come home with them....and he never would. Four weeks later, just over a month after I met him, he died.

Now I sat alone in the last of a train of cars about to embark on a 45 minute drive toward the setting sun. It seemed so symbolic, ironic - and perfect. I turned on the radio as the flashing lights of sirens fell in behind me and I'll be darned if it wasn't the same sweet country song that had just concluded the service! It spoke of a daddy encouraging his cowgirl to keep on riding when she falls. I simultaneously smiled and cried.

I have never been the very last car in a funeral procession before. But something about the perspective it afforded me and the slow songs on the radio made my deepest ponderings run wild. Even though this day was not about me, there was something so personal and comforting about that officer behind me. He knew who to watch for. He recognized me. He knew I belonged with this group while those behind me didn't. With a small, reassuring smile of protection, he so diligently waited for me to catch up at each intersection, signaling him to then race back to the front where my dear friend followed her daddy in the last car that he would ever ride in. It was as if he was checking on us both. Each time I reached him again, he would swerve behind me for just a moment to signal to the traffic stopped in reverence that I was the Last Car. After me, they were free to continue.

As we passed through four towns of rolling hills, blooming dogwoods, and greening grass against the bluest skies, not a single driver failed to pause their busy agenda in honor of this ordinary man. Long lines of vehicles were stopped in acknowledgement that this man with no fame or fortune must have meant something to this world. A couple dozen soccer fans even removed their caps and saluted our cavalcade from behind a chain link fence. It was so profoundly moving. So many that day stopped their lives just long enough to communicate, "We're sorry. May you find comfort in remembering he was special." And then life went on. We passed and they went on about their day, just as Staci will soon be learning to do.

As we approached the cemetary and the hearse pulled in, the officer nodded at me to acknowlege he was leaving. I looked for a open patch of grass to park while another of Staci's friends carried Staci's baby daughter toward the grave on her hip. We all gathered and just a few more words were said under a green tent on a fiercely windy day. A prayer was offered, the dismissal was given, and we lingered just a moment as if to mentally map this 18 square feet of dirt on the Earth. I turned to leave and Staci's brother thanked me for being there for her. "You're one of her best friends" he said as he hugged me. "This sucks!" he said angrily over my shoulder. "I know," I said. "I can't completely UNDERSTAND, but I know." He invited me back to the house for the meal and I told him I had plans with my family. Then he chuckled warmly and wiped his eyes and said something that made me smile at Providence. "Well, alright. But if you get hungry later, come on back out. You're more than welcome. We'll be there. Well, maybe not Staci. You know her. She'll probably be out here a while. I'm sure she'll be the last car to leave." Of all the ways he could have put it.