I have been to more memorial events in the past year than in the previous ten. Today, on the day before the 365 day anniversary of my wife’s sudden death, I began with another, a “celebration of life” in a Baptist church for a woman I never met. But she was the mother of a friend, not a close friend, I guess— can someone you have only talked to twice in 30 years be called a close friend?—but a wonderful, kind, caring man whom I am proud to have as a friend at all.

I knew only three people at the service besides my friend, which surprised me. I spoke with two of them, and waved to another. Sitting alone in a long pew, my mind wandered all over the place on many topics—this is my curse. Is it unethical to be thinking about a different deceased person at a memorial for another one? No, thinking isn’t ethical unethical, but anyway, I couldn’t help replaying the events of the past year beginning with February 29, 2024 in my mind.

The service, though mercifully short, reminded me of Grace’s disillusionment with organized religion after growing up as Methodist minister’s daughter. The sermon was delivered by a friend of the family; itwas so generic as to be impersonal and meaningless, even though it was presented as particularly applicable to the deceased. The pastor basically repeated that “love is the way” over and over again for fifteen minutes.

Meanwhile, he soloist at the service seemed to think of herself as channeling Aretha Franklin, but had neither the voice nor, crucially, the pitch to approach that standard. She also was belting high, screachy notes into a harsh and overly-loud sound system that really and truly hurt my ears, but I felt it would have been bad form to cover them with my hands.

Furthermore:

• My old friend was genuinely surprised and touched to see me, gave me a long bear hug, and immediately apologized for not making it to Grace’s memorial event. He didn’t have to: I know him well enough to have been certain that if he could have come, he would have.
• Looking around the church, I thought, “Diversity is a beautiful thing when it’s natural.” This was a very diverse gathering: my friend and his family are black; he’s a singer as well as union official, and I was in a mix of whites, blacks, gays, musicians, theater types, and retired professional athletes.
• In a brief conversation with one of my old theater colleagues, I learned that she was “struggling” with the “situation” (this is code now for “Trump is President”) and that many of her friends were losing jobs and being prevented from doing important work like “helping the people of Afghanistan.” I nodded sympathetically, but I thought: this is pure emotion over reason. It’s fine for the U.S. to help the people of another nation when this nation’s needs are being taken care of. I’m certain good and dedicated federal employees are losing their jobs, but it is the epitome of “collateral damage.” This is utilitarianism in action: the Golden Rule seldom applies to national policy.
• Another old acquaintance I saw there has a fraught history with me: she was a friend until I had to cut almost all of her numbers on opening night of a musical revue I directed. (It was running way too long.) That episode was horrible, and a gut punch to her, but I had no choice. She barely spoke to me after that even though we worked in the same office. I briefly considered telling her today that I still felt badly about having to make that decision, but I couldn’t apologize for it because what I did was in the best interest of the production. I decided that the kindest thing was just to leave that scar alone, and let her quietly hold a grudge. Forever.
• While my mind wandered, I again thought about the past year and how so many people, including Ethics Alarms readers, had provided me with emotional support that proved invaluable. And yet I am not much more emotionally healthy than I was on March 1. This is discouraging and infuriating.
• One of the themes that was emphasized by others during the service was the idea that “if you help one person, you haven’t lived in vain.” Well, I guess I clear that low bar, since Grace and I rescued a Russian baby from the hell hole where he was born and he has grown up free, healthy, and (frighteningly) independent. I also thought about how we have probably spent less than five hours together in the last year, even though he lives in the lowest floor in my house. He’s dealing with his own problems, and knows I’m here when and if he needs me. I wish we had a closer relationship, but he should never feel obligated to submit to one.
• Ironically, when I turned on the radio for the drive home, the first song that came on was “Come Onna My House,” a big hit in the Fifties for Rosemary Clooney. The lyrics of that song were written by playwright and novelist William Saroyan, the only song he ever wrote. Saroyan, in his works, often made the point that if only one human being benefited from one’s art, the artist’s life had meaning. He also said, “In the time of your life, live—so that in that good time there shall be no ugliness or death for yourself or for any life your life touches.”
• The next song to come on was “The Happening,” by the Supremes. I may be the only fan of the strange 1967 ethics movie of the same name that the song comes from. When I saw it initially, with my parents, the story struck me as profound: a series of random events lead a man to realize that all of his relationships of trust and love were built on metaphorical sand, while the Sixties stereotypes who inadvertently create his existential crisis learn not only that actions have consequences, but that you can never be certain what those consequences will be or whose life they will disrupt.

The Happening for me was a year ago, and even now, I have no idea where it will lead.