Now that we’re slowly emerging from the pandemic, we need to grapple with the grief we’ve experienced.
One of the small losses that I’ve personally felt was the cancellation of road races. As a long-distance runner who’s completed multiple marathons a year for over a decade, I had no goal for my training. Even though it saddens me, it’s also provided a welcome break. While I love staying in shape, the long runs needed to build endurance really eat up free time on the weekend.
In my marathon training, I enjoy running across the city toward Spring Grove, the largest cemetery in Cincinnati. As you head into back into the city from there, the most route (and the flattest) is Spring Grove Avenue, an expansive road featuring endless industrial warehouses. It’s a veritable ghost town on weekends, and with an established bike lane to boot, it’s an ideal road for a long run. Urban solitude is how I describe it.
A few years ago I was out on a Saturday working a fifteen mile run and I was all alone on Spring Grove Avenue. Ahead in the distance I saw flashing lights and realized a funeral procession was headed my way. I had enough time to think about how I should react: should I continue along or pause and pay respects? I really hate to pause when out for a long run; it can be devastating to lose momentum when you still have miles left to go. Still, it felt incredibly disrespectful to be out enjoying my weekend while those driving by were experiencing grief. And since there was no one else around me, I felt whatever response I chose would be easily seen.
I paused on the sidewalk, took of my hat, and stood there until the procession had passed.
I was reminded about it last week when I was driving and a funeral procession passed in front of me at the traffic light. As I paused I noticed a driver on a side street looking quite annoyed. Predictably, the motorist cut off the procession, wove in and out of the line, and then passed the procession on the outside lane. While I was instantly angry, my rage turned to sadness for the driver.
What could have been so important in their day that a ninety second pause was simply too long?
Of the many lessons we’ve learned in the past twelve months, I’m hoping that we’ve rediscovered the virtue of patience.
Like most task oriented folk, I get annoyed at the inconvenience of pausing progress. I want what I want and I want it now. But even in my desire to live on the cutting edge, I rarely reflect that I’d be better off not to pause. If the respite progresses toward reflection, my future decision making will be even better.
And I would hope that, with the great loss we’ve all experienced in the last twelve months, a reminder of our mortality should help us prioritize our actions and effectiveness in the world.
Today we’re slowing down for the procession or we’re in the midst of it.
One day, we’ll be in the casket.
So slow down to remember. The small act of pausing for funeral processions is a good start.
Even though we all have a lot to do, we’d benefit from reflecting on the loss we’ve experienced. Hitting pause is the least we can do to see the bigger picture of life.