They trudged through the fresh snow, whitened and whipped by the biting winter winds. They had come, young and old, to accompany their beloved pastor to his final resting place. The grave had been prepared. A mound of partly frozen earth, covered by artificial green turf, broke the silent white expanse of the cemetery. The black hearse waited patiently.
Along with hundreds of other mourners I had attended the funeral of Rev. William Addley, SJ that morning. Long time pastor at the Jesuit parish of Our Lady of Lourdes in Toronto, Father Bill was well loved by many. Thousands had attended the days of wake held in the church. Long lines of people waited to kneel and pray one final time beside their faithful guide and shepherd.
Catholic wakes are generally a time of great unity. People come to pay their respects to the family. People you haven't seen in years maybe. Hugs, laughter, conversation, memories, silent sitting in solidarity. Wakes bring out the best in
us.
I would love to know who crafted the funeral liturgy. If celebrated well, it is pure genius. For some reason, it helps us grieve and cry well. The Word of God, the song of the angels, holy water, sweet-smelling incense, candles, wine, bread, white vestments, and movement with meaning.
As with all good liturgy, funerals invite us into sacred time and space. The meaning of death is addressed with realism and hope. Death has been conquered, so we are invited to enter into its darkness only to be lead into further light.
Rest assured that the pain of loss and separation is by no means denied. The funeral liturgy admits the sharp, poisoned sting of death. That is why death can never be engaged simply with words or the reasoning of the mind. Death is absurd, unreasonable, not welcomed. Because of that, death can only be engaged in ritual, in that suspension of normal time and space. Death can only be engaged in and through the loving mystery of God.
After the funeral, about 200 faithful travelled several hours by bus and car to the Jesuit cemetery in the city of Guelph, southwest of Toronto. The small cemetery is surrounded by 600 acres of beautiful farmland, wetland and forest, a property stewarded by the Jesuits and their co-workers for decades. Fr. Bill began his Jesuit life on that property when he entered the Jesuit novitiate on August 14, 1964. Forty-eight years later he had returned to rest on that land forever.
A winter squall had gained energy as the people gathered around the opened earth. Song sheets flapped in numbed hands. Voices sang their song of lament. The priest' words of consolation filtered through the cold winter air. 
Before Bill's body was lowered into the ground, everyone gathered up handfuls of clay-rich earth, held it, and let it fall on Bill's casket. From the earth we came, into the bowels of the earth we return.
The day of the funeral was my birthday. A strange way to celebrate a birthday you may think. But, amidst our tears, we celebrated the goodness and kindness of Bill. As Jesuit Provincial, Fr. Bill had accepted me into the Society of Jesus. He had been so kind to me – and to countless others over the years.
I can think of no better way to celebrate life than at a funeral