Well… Today’s the day. Not that anyone in particular is looking forward to today. Not at Music City, at least. Especially not the Sparkman family. I can’t imagine what they’re going through right now.

Wake up for the kids was 7:45 with breakfast served promptly at 8:00. The staff rooms remained silent for almost another hour, though, as we each struggled to force ourselves off the cots and air mattresses which filled the daycare we called home. For some, the struggle came from the prospect of facing students. For others, it came from the idea of facing our mortality. Of realizing what we have here is fragile and that there’s no rhyme or reason to what happens and when. Still for others, it was a struggle merely to get out of bed because it was so much earlier than they were used to.

My breakfast in bed, consisting of two leftover pieces of frosted cookie cake, was less than nutritious. But such is life. I sat up, blinked twice, and then knocked over a metal water bottle which woke the rest of the room. The staff shared a laugh before falling silent at the realization of where we were preparing to go.

Cargo pants are far from a fashion statement and, on the best of days, will just get you strange looks. But willingly cutting yourself off from the rest of the world limits your clothing choices in ways that most Hollywood starlets have nightmares about. So grey pants and a blue quarter zip were donned to match black Nike running shoes and a pair of sunglasses. But as though to emphasize the solemnity of today, grey clouds and heavy rain blotted the sun and dampened moods throughout the corps. Off to a phenomenal start.

The roughly twenty mile drive took the better part of forty-five minutes thanks, in part, to the inability of Tennessee drives to navigate rain soaked roads. Emerging from behind the hills was the tell-tale symbol of Nashville: the AT&T building’s dual antennas. The six staff members who had piled into Josh’s SUV marveled at the Batman building between stories of shows and people and places long lost to memory. A joke here and a pun there served to lighten the atmosphere, but an unspoken understanding of what we were about to endure filled the air.

If you’ve never attended a service at an African Methodist Episcopal church, I would highly recommend it. Though not necessarily under the circumstances which I found myself. Having grown up in a mixed household, I have seen the best and worst of both worlds which clash for the title of the American identity: the established, gentrified Anglicans versus up and coming Hispanics. Protestant versus Catholic. English vs Spanish. White vs Color. I have seen the somber, tear inducing funeral services of my Great Grandfather from Mississippi and the laughter filled, loving celebration of life in honor of my Uncle from Kansas City. (The dichotomy of emotion in such instances is something which I largely blame my emotional distance on.) But both paled in comparison to the festivities which spilled into the chapel at the corner of Smiley and Neill.

I’d be lying if I said I felt nervous. Or sad. Or anything. To be honest, I did not know Finis all that well, so my apathetic self felt, frankly, numb. I used the restroom (regretting the half pint of ice cream from last night), stumbled entering the main hall, and quickly took my seat in the first row of the upper balcony. I listened to marching band shows he had marched and watched a slideshow of significant instances in his life. A graduation cap. A toy drum and sticks. A casket with his father’s image atop it.

Handling my emotions is something I have not quite mastered. Just ask any one of my exes. So when others began to cry or giggle at a joke, I sat stone cold. Silent. Blank. Wondering what the hell is wrong with me. But then the Reverend said something which will stick with me for years: it’s ok not to know what to feel, just as long as you are there for people along the way.

Psalms and songs and claps and cheers and all sorts of loving laughter filled the air thereafter. A phenomenal letter by Finis’ older sister to a lost baby brother moved the audience. An equally sarcastic yet loving letter from an even older brother gave me just a glimpse of how intimate this family was. Is. And I? Well I sat there and prayed to a God who may or may not be there.

Then the Reverend intervened again. I noted the inexplicable timing of his unsolicited help. In this instance, it came in the form of a bible verse.

“‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou prepares a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever and ever.’ Though we may walk through the lonely streets and though we may often times lose our way, the Lord will find you and bring you back to the track of righteousness. He will bring you to the light. He will love you unconditionally! So do the same for your brothers and sisters beside you, my dear friends.”

I wonder who that person will be for me.