ii. Sorrows
Elizabeth Moore
Greetings from Louisiana.
As the small regional airplane made its descent into North Louisiana, I looked out the window and noticed the Louisiana Tech football stadium, the Ruston water tower, the gargantuan Baptist church on the side of I-20. Even from thousands of feet above, this tiny town with its tiny cars and tiny buildings surrounded by farmland and forest was familiar to me, like glimpsing a map of my childhood.
I’m home this week for my grandfather’s funeral, and there is nowhere else I’d rather be. Home can feel so far away until something calls you back, and then, you simply must do whatever it takes to get there.
There is so much planning that goes into a funeral, so much anguish, so much finality. When someone dies, life slows down. Everything mercifully falls off the calendar and to-do list to give space for grief and memories. On Monday morning, my dad and I leaned against the kitchen counter in our pjs, sipping coffee, crying, laughing, frying eggs, and talking about my grandfather. For the rest of the week, we took days off work, flipped through old photo albums, and sat on the back deck talking. My mom and I brought chai lattes to my sister-in-law at the fabric shop downtown. Our local handyman and family friend “yoohooed” his way through the back door to work on home repairs. Andrea and Stacy brought over lasagna and brownies. Judy fed the dog while we were out of town. I may be guilty of seeing home through rose-colored glasses, but even sad trips home seem to be shot through with deep friendship and charm.
The day of the funeral was sorrowful and sweet. We sang old hymns and greeted friends who had driven for hours to pay their respects. My dad and uncle made beautiful remarks about my grandfather’s life and legacy while the rest of us passed around travel packs of tissue. Our hearts were compressed with grief but stirred with hope at the reminder that death is a natural part of life, that God has shown grace to us through the sacrifice and resurrection of Jesus. As my mom sagely said, death is not an end but a beginning. Most of all, we deeply missed Frank Moore. We missed him because we love him. And we don’t stop loving someone when they leave.
That evening, my mom and I went for a walk through our neighborhood. It smelled like pine straw and wind chimes and coming home after school. Many may fly over this patch of North Louisiana and only see a rural southern community, a college town, or a convenient interstate stop for Starbucks and Chili’s. But this town means more to the people who know it, who grew up in it, who got countless sunburns in the football stadium, who went to elementary school down the service road from the Mobile station, who heard the distant rumble of the train early in the morning. I think the way we feel about our hometown is similar to how we feel about our people. When we know them—really know them—we love them despite their quirks, we forgive them despite their flaws, and we miss them when they're gone. At the end of the day, the true character of a town or a person is always more complex, more layered, more lovable and richly meaningful than they may seem—more than flyover country, more than a Sunday obituary, more than a framed memory. We can’t help but love and miss the people and places whose existences have significantly shaped our own.
Artistic Offering
This newsletter was written to the tune of the brand new and beautifully ambient singles by Sam Gryzwa, or Isle’r. Sam composed these restorative pieces during the chaos of this past year, and they are a balm for the soul. His most recent “With the Wind” was released this weekend, “The Sound of Love” was released around Valentine’s Day, and “Through the Glass” (my personal favorite) kicked January off in the best way. Listen at the link below, and follow Isle’r on Instagram.
WHAT I’M READING
How to Avoid a Climate Disaster by Bill Gates
All We Can Save edited by Ayana Elizabeth Johnson and Katharine Wilkinson