From a Teen’s Perspective: A celebration of life

I’m writing this in a Starbucks while the light turns to gold and hits the trees at a diagonal slant. Shadows are climbing their way into the sky and I know that it will be night before I am ready. I figure this is quite the analogy for my previous engagement — a celebration of life for Lucy Louise Lunt.

Lucy was a 15-year-old sophomore at my high school, Menlo-Atherton. She suffered from Spinal Muscular Atrophy Type 1, a genetic disease that greatly impacted her health and mobility. She was president of the Disability Awareness Club and many described her as an avid student who inspired others with her ambition and bravery.

I did not know Lucy personally. However, her funeral was open to the public, and I knew that she had made a powerful impact on our community, so I wanted to pay my respects and learn more about the life she had lived.

This article may be very choppy, and I’m not sure it will have an organized central thesis. But my experience at the celebration of Lucy’s life has filled me with emotions, and I feel —just as I learned Lucy did, as well — that emotions deserve to be immortalized in words.

Before I begin to share those emotions, I would like to note a few disclaimers. First and foremost, I would like to acknowledge that the emotions I felt and continue to feel are nowhere as deep or profound as those of Lucy’s loved ones. They are the true heros of this story, for they are the ones who smiled at us, shook our hands, and thanked us for coming even though it should have been the other way around. The strength I witnessed in their love and composure will stay with me forever.

Second, I am going to refrain from describing the funeral in too much detail. It was a sacred occasion, and I want to treat it as such. I will only mention what is necessarily related to my emotional response. Again, I want to appreciate Lucy’s family and friends for organizing such a beautiful tribute to her and allowing us to observe and take part in it.

Finally, I would like to warn readers that this article contains many mentions of death, grief, and other uncomfortable topics. I encourage everyone to read this, but I understand that these things can be overwhelming and deserve proper warning.

Now, onto my emotions.

The first emotion I felt was fear. My friend Robbie had agreed to show me around the memorial service, and as I walked up to greet him, my hands were shaking and my heart was thumping. I had only been to one funeral before, and frankly, the idea of confronting death so openly and honestly terrified me. I felt like an interloper — who was I to stand in the shadow of grief and share sorrow with those who had actually known Lucy.

I asked myself, would I cry? Should I cry? Was there a “right” way to attend a funeral?

Robbie led me through a series of rooms dedicated to Lucy’s life, showcasing photos, a collection of her favorite objects (including an impressive makeup bag that any woman would be jealous of), and pieces of her writing.

The latter hit me the hardest. If it isn’t already obvious, words are my life. Seeing her poems and journal entries taped up against the walls made me feel closer to her, both as a fellow writer and human being. She had a unique voice — thoughtful and compassionate yet hilariously witty — and I can only hope that her words will remain in perpetuity as monuments to the inspiring way she viewed the world.

When I saw Lucy, I imagined someone from my family in her place. The thought of losing someone so special stole my breath and stirred the saltwater pools behind my eyes. I spoke with each member of her immediate family. When her mom gave me a hug, I wished I could absorb all the pain and turn back the clock. But of course I couldn’t. No one could. And that feeling of helplessness flooded me.

Lucy’s family was nothing but gracious. Her brother, who I had run cross country with a couple years prior, asked me about the team and my life. When I told him how sorry I was for his loss, he responded that it was all a part of God’s plan.

Lucy’s family is a part of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and I must confess that while I do believe in a divine power, I do not identify with any organized religion. But today, I felt a deep respect for their religious community. During the service, Lucy’s family expressed gratitude for the various acts of support they received from members of their church. As I scanned the pews, I saw a bright network of love connecting each individual and strengthening their collective unity.

Each family member mentioned faith — how Lucy had taught them what it meant and how they had channeled it into their life. And for arguably the first time in my life, I understood the power of faith. Perhaps not in a specific place, but as a powerful concept that had the power to comfort, heal, and restore. Before me stood a group of people who had lost such an influential person in their lives, a person who they had given so much love to for 15 years, and while they shed tears and acknowledged their pain, they all spoke of their future reunion with Lucy in the afterlife.

Belief had given them the strength to endure, and more importantly, the strength to hope. And that is what I now feel, sitting at this Starbucks, dusk officially upon our little slice of the Earth. Hope will always be possible as long as we can access our humanity in the face of tragedy and truly give our hearts to service for others.

I know that death is the most frightening and sorrowful thing we all must face. And I know that our fear of death and grief for its existence is never more prevalent than when we face it in another. We cannot shut off our hearts because those emotions are too painful. Instead, we must choose to celebrate and uplift the light we see within ourselves and within one another. Together, our lights are bright enough to poke holes in the shadows. After all, why else would the night sky be filled with stars?

Dylan Lanier is a senior at Menlo-Atherton High School. His column appears weekly.

Image by standret on Freepik