A Walk Along the Beach(77)

The overcast sky held the promise of rain later in the day. The burial was scheduled for that morning. The final goodbye. Yet how could I ever really let go of Harper? It would be impossible to release my beautiful sister, even in death.

One of the last things I’d said to her was that she would always be a part of me, and it was true. I would carry her love with me into the future, no matter what it held or where it would take me.

At the appropriate time, Dad, Lucas, Chantelle, John, and I met at the funeral home. The casket was open, and we were given time privately to say our final goodbye before it was closed.

I stood before my sister and looked upon her one last time. Harper’s head was covered with her lilac-colored wig. Leukemia had ravaged her body, but it hadn’t been able to steal her beauty. She looked nothing like she once had, but it didn’t distract from who she was. I touched her face one last time, swallowed my tears, and turned away, bracing myself for whatever this desperately sad day would hold. Of all of us, John lingered at her casket the longest, his grief as deep as our own. His heart broken. He had gone above and beyond in his effort to save her.

The flowers I’d chosen were surrounded with lilac ribbons, bright and cheerful. Harper would have hated to see us grieving; her wish was that we would celebrate her life. Rejoice that her suffering was over and that she was at peace.

    The funeral director drove us to the church. I wasn’t sure how many from the community would attend and was surprised to see that thirty minutes before the funeral was scheduled to begin, the parking lot was full.

As we exited the car, Dad kept his arm wrapped around me.

“It’s going to be okay,” he whispered.

This was his way of assuring me he hadn’t taken a drink. Although I hadn’t mentioned it to Lucas, having our father fall off the wagon was a big concern. Dad had been doing well for two months and seemed better than he had been in years. But this…the death of his child was sure to shake that fragile foundation of sobriety. If anything would threaten to cause him to drink again, it would be this day.

I clung to his arm, wanting him to know how proud I was of him. Proud and grateful. “You’re doing great.” My hope was that he’d remain strong in the aftermath of today and into the future.

We filed into the church as a family and were blessed to find the loving support of our community. Harper was loved, and her death was duly noted by those whose lives she had touched.

I noticed Sean sat in the first row behind the family. As we walked in, he captured my gaze, and while I wanted to look away, I found I couldn’t. Emotion clouded his face. Regret. Sympathy. Guilt. I hadn’t the strength to deal with his feelings; his actions told me his work would always come first in his life. I needed more than he could give. Realizing and accepting that now was a good thing for us both.

Harper’s closest friends, Joelle, Leesa, and Carrie, had insisted on preparing the lunch that would follow the funeral. They were as determined as I’d been to make this as celebratory as possible. They’d cooked and baked, working long into the night to be sure all would be ready. I’d spent a good amount of time with them. Chantelle, too. We’d wept and hugged one another and laughed, remembering Harper and loving her. I’d helped bake dozens of lemon-flavored cupcakes, Harper’s favorite, and frosted them with vanilla icing.

    Pastor McDonald approached the lectern. He’d been wonderful. He’d prayed with us, but mostly he’d listened. He didn’t offer any of the usual platitudes. Instead, he’d sat with us and heard our pain and grief. When I mentioned how angry I was with God, he sympathized and gently said that God understood.

For Harper’s funeral he chose the verse from I Corinthians 2:9 to prepare the eulogy.

    “No eyes have seen, no ear has heard, no mind has conceived what God has prepared for those who love Him.”



It was perfect. He looked out over the packed church and spoke, his words filled with encouragement and comfort. He knew Harper, who had been raised in this same church. She’d attended Sunday school here as a child—we both had. Mom was the one who’d brought us, and Dad joined when he wasn’t working and on holidays. Harper had memorized enough Bible verses to be awarded her own Bible. The very one she’d packed with her when she’d entered the hospital all those months ago. Her Bible: Well read, well worn, well loved.

The church had standing room only. While Pastor McDonald eulogized Harper, I could feel Sean’s eyes on me. Without a single audible word, I sensed everything he’d wanted to say. How desperately sorry he was to have left me when I’d needed him most. Had he realized…had he known, understood how desperate Harper’s condition was, he would have found a way to be at my side. He wanted us to go back, start again, and silently begged me to give him a second chance.

For me, at this point in my life, the answer was no. I didn’t mean to be cruel. I could forgive him and in fact already had. That didn’t change my decision, though. As it was, I was holding on by a thread.

    Pastor McDonald looked to me as he spoke. “I know a lot of you feel that your hope, your prayers, your faith, were ignored by God. I’m here to assure you that isn’t true. God has answered all our prayers, just not the way we wanted or expected. Remember, Harper is free now: free of cancer, free of pain. She is free. Harper is perfect and whole and in paradise. I can see her now, putting together a yoga class.”