Jan. 25, 1984… I carried the inner peace with me for the entirety of the day. After breakfast I fed the bird, and then shut myself up in my old bedroom to write Norm's eulogy. I had written approximately half of it when Rev. Hess came. He's a good guy, and easy to talk to. He's the first minister I've ever encountered who admitted that religion is a personal thing with some people, and that one can accept other's viewpoints without compromising his own beliefs or criticizing conflicting views. I read aloud the parts of my writing which I had completed. He will read my final copy on Saturday. I elected not to do so for dual reasons: I am nervous in front of crowds, under the circumstances, the nervousness would be worse.
After lunch, Steve and I went to Wild Cat Den. There was a fresh cool breeze blowing. I missed Norm, yet memories were sweet. It was good to get out of the house and into the wind. We dropped off my film and mailed my photo entry.
Jan. 26, 1984… I think that too little time spent alone is taking its toll. I went upstairs and I listened to my tape and another album; then I dug out the note which Norm wrote me when I was in Greece.
Jan. 27, 1984… So well do I recall the day in which we rode in black limousines to the cemetery. It seemed to me a ghastly promenade in the midst of such grand January weather; I felt myself to be an actor in some morbid sideshow in which I was to don my most lamentable countenance so as to better give casual onlookers the expected performance. Instead, I chose to focus my eyes upon my knees, where they remained riveted until we motored into the graveyard in our stately, yet somber vehicle.
Everything within me screamed and rebelled when we once again were instructed to issue into our allotted seat for the return trip. The entire essence of the black limousines seemed to me a gruesome ritual of bygone ages. My sorrow was not an emotion which I desired to splash among the city streets with an air of pomp and circumstance; it was grief as personal and private as those thoughts I shared exclusively with Norm and my ever-true notebook. To ride thus seemed to make a mockery of that which was actually taking place, becoming an event rather than the tribute to a deceased and beloved individual.
"God needed Norm in heaven with him," was a phrase spoken to attempt to comfort us. Some try to see a purpose in all things. . . a way to make them less hurtful. Others view death as the ultimate "bad thing" yet need to justify God's love by saying that "it was all for the best." Then there are those who say, "God gives you pain because He knows you will grow stronger." Boy, that makes me want to run to a church and shout "Praise the Lord!"
It is difficult to know what to say to someone who has suffered a loss. It is painful enough to visit, to witness the anguish. It is more difficult to bring comforting and meaningful words to the grief-stricken. Can one praise God for His kindness and love when the situation is nothing but grim and senseless? Statements must also be chosen that do not somehow suggest the mourner is to blame, that had he done something differently, the outcome would have been altogether reversed. Awareness of ones self and others helps immeasurably during a confrontation with adversity, for among the numerous reactions to a given situation, mutual respect is of foremost importance. Everyone reacts differently.
I hope Norm has found peace. He certainly deserves a sojourn of tranquility. His tapes of Meditation and ESP came today in the mail. Mom and Dad have received 120 cards so far! It's unbelievable how many are concerned and respond.
Jan. 28, 1984… It was rather a madhouse today, as a carload of relatives popped in unexpectedly near lunch time. I escaped to my upstairs room before it was time to go to the Memorial Service. I couldn't bear the commotion on the main floor. The limousine once again brought us to the church. It was hard to remain composed as I walked into the church and found my way to the parlor. I brushed my hair in a nearby restroom and then returned to wait for the service to begin. I was scared for what the service might be, my only knowledge of memorials being the bleak hopelessness so common to funerals.
Rev. Hess delivered the formalities in a manner far from depressing. He read several scriptures including the congregation in one; there were three hymns also sung with the congregation. He read, also, the poem "Birches" by Robert Frost, and then my contribution to the service. After the service we filed out, utilizing the center aisle just as we had entered the sanctuary.