The film Four Weddings and a Funeral debuted the year I completed my college education, and I recall wishing I could leap into that cinematic world. It showcased somewhat awkward British singles grappling with the intricate dynamics of love and loss, all while participating in extravagant social gatherings and staying in charming castles and pubs. Hugh Grant portrayed his endearing, clumsy self, surrounded by a cast that blurred the lines between friendship and family. At the time, it felt like a perfect representation of ordinary individuals managing the extraordinary challenges that arise from genuine affection and heartache.
Fast forward over twenty years, and I now find myself joyfully married to my own floppy-haired partner, devoid of any scandals that I know of. Together, we cherish our three children, navigate a large and boisterous extended family that brings immense joy and just enough chaos to keep life interesting, and maintain a circle of friends—both old and new—who provide laughter and support. If I were to encapsulate our life in cinematic terms, I might say it resembles a blend of My Big Fat Greek Wedding—Egyptian edition and Steel Magnolias—Midwestern edition, with a sprinkle of Toy Story on top.
However, last week, my wish to engage in a Four Weddings and a Funeral experience almost materialized, albeit in reverse. In one of life’s more peculiar narratives, I found myself attending three funerals and a wedding within a mere five days. First, I learned of the passing of my friend’s mother, who had been ill for some time. Two days later, another friend lost her mother after a courageous battle with Alzheimer’s. The following day, I was informed that a former colleague had lost his wife. I began to dread logging into social media, as my newsfeed seemed perpetually filled with sorrow.
Describing the week as peculiar is akin to saying that Gigli was a minor disappointment. My days were typically filled with summer activities for the kids—swim practices, vacation Bible school—and I would hastily change from my casual mom attire into a simple black dress as soon as my husband returned home. As I headed out to support two daughters, now mothers themselves, as they bid farewell to their own mothers, I was moved to tears by my little girl’s hug and her plea, “Come right back, Mama.”
In one of the strangest moments of that week, we actually paused at the third funeral on our way to the wedding. Within a single hour, we witnessed one man vow to love, honor, and cherish until death separated them, while another mourned that he had fulfilled that promise. It was a remarkable cycle of life that might leave even Mufasa, in all his Lion King majesty, feeling disoriented.
Sitting hand in hand with my husband at the wedding, I realized that I hadn’t attended many funerals in my life. My grandparents and close relatives passed away abroad. Throughout my childhood, my parents experienced the loss of friends, but those funerals were typically adult affairs—not often discussed in front of children. Coming from a culture that excels at celebrating love, we gather in large numbers—often over 500 people—eager to eat, drink, and rejoice with the bride and groom. Our celebrations of love are vibrant, whether it’s weddings, bridal showers, or spontaneous gatherings. Yet, when it comes to loss, we seem to falter.
In recent years, I have attended funerals labeled “Celebrations of Life.” This concept is challenging for me to grasp, as the shroud of grief envelops our community, dimming the light. There is little laughter, and certainly no celebration. Silence reigns in funeral homes, broken only by sobs and fervent prayers. Widows and close family members traditionally don all black for an entire year following their loved one’s passing, sometimes for the rest of their lives. Perhaps when you love deeply, the void left by that love is too profound to ever fully heal. Yet, can love and loss coexist harmoniously?
The poet Rumi posited that sorrow and joy are intricately linked. He articulated, “Sorrow prepares you for joy. It violently sweeps everything out of your house, so that new joy can find space to enter.” This resonates with me, especially after my whirlwind week of three funerals and a wedding. The morning after the final event, I attended church with my family. My youngest insisted we light a candle. As we touched the flame of an existing candle to a new wick, I saw his face illuminate with wonder as the new flame flickered to life. It reminded me of those moments when your beloved film comes alive on screen, or when it fades to black. In that brief instant, light and darkness danced together.
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In summary, life is a complex interplay of joy and sorrow, and while we may excel at celebrating love, we must also learn to embrace and navigate the pain of loss.