Meet Me Here

I'm writing this post from home, at my kitchen table.

I'm home, at my kitchen table because I was fired on Monday. And the reasons I was given were specious, and my replacement was already in the building, ready to be announced.

So, one day shy of the three month anniversary of my life's biggest tragedy, I've got a whole new one to ponder and explore.

God's promise is that he'll meet me here. So, come, Lord Jesus.

Dance In Peace, Michael Zechariah Clements

On my way home January 28, Jenny told me that I really didn't want to see Zoe's frail lifeless body. She wasn't there, she told me.

So I didn't. I hang on to the last picture I took and even now, I close my eyes and try to remember what her smooth face felt against my cheek. Hear her laugh - best she could - when we played.

I think what destroys us parents is that Zoe is all better and we have to wait to see her. She can sing now, sing better than her mama, but we have to wait to hear it. That she laughs and can't stop talking like her brothers, but barring Jesus' return, we're stuck with piecing together our projection of what she looks like. And wonder if we'll know her, and she'll know us. On this earth, even after 96 weeks and 4 days, Zoe could barely lift her leg with a shoe on it.

Now her form is glorified and if you'd meet her, if you didn't know better, you'd want to bow down and worship her instead of the Glorifier inside her.

Bittersweet. Sometimes...heck, all the time, that's the best we get as parents. I raise my kids to grow up and be God followers, to love each other and work hard, and believe. Zoe did. And so do the others. But...I don't want them to go.

Bittersweet is what I'd call my relationship with my brother, Shane Clements. I found him on Twitter, a little over a year ago, asking us all for prayers for little Michael, even before Michael was born. He, unfortunately...yet fortunately...shares my torture. Minus 92 weeks and a day.

I never met Michael but I figure he's like his daddy, pressing and seeking God's heart, even right now. He's complete now, and his dad saw him broken and loved him all the same. Shane wanted Michael whole again, and Shane got his wish. After 17 days.

Michael is dancing with Zoe and he never had to know what it's like to lose, never had to learn what torture even means. Glorify. That's what he knows. Magnify.

And when God sees Shane someday, Shane's going to hear words I'll tell him now, but nowhere nearly as perfect or complete: You did it right, Shane. I'm so proud of you. Well done.

Fly Away

We went to Destin almost two weeks ago. It's the last spot our entire family vacationed together, and it is, to a person, our favorite place in the world. The stretch of beach called Miramar has clear blue Gulf and powder-fine sand. When we visit, it's always idyllically warm, no bugs, just lots of suntan lotion and a day split between the beach and the pool.

Jenny walked down the beach, back to where we were last year, and as she walked, she discovered a little shell that we have all called "butterfly shell" because it looks like two wings joined almost invisibly in the middle. She brought her butterfly shell home.

A few days later, I went out at low tide. I just like it when the water's receded and sand bars protrude, as if you're there at Earth's first day, the first person to stand on a never-discovered island. I had no intention of doing anything but walking and listening to the waves, but I'm my father's son, and I saw flecks of beauty revealed in the receding water. Beautiful shells. I picked some up, and after a few steps, became selective. 

That day I found some beautiful butterfly shells. Must have been the season for them. I didn't want to crush them, and being improperly prepared, I just held my shells in my right hand as I wandered down the shore.

As I returned, my hand was mostly full. Incredible colors, some intriguing fossilizations, some just perfect. I kept the butterfly shells on the top of my stack, so I wouldn't break them. 

A funny thing happened.

A gust of wind would blow, and a butterfly shell would catch the breeze, and fly out of my hand. I'd stop, hustle to the shell before it was recovered by water and sand, put it gently back into my hand, and keep walking. 

And it happened again. And again. And being my father's son, I laughed. Because Dad always found the appropriate amount of humor in things by imagining someone watching himself as he was doing something. Here I was, middle-aged man, walking down the beach, chasing shells flying out of my hand. 

I couldn't hold the butterfly shells too tightly - they might break. And I couldn't keep them from catching the breeze. If I was going to take them back to our room, I'd have to keep chasing them.

We can't hold on to them tightly enough. We still can't. Whatever my dad and Zoe began as, they were made to fly away. 

Zoe's Birthday

I've started this entry three times, starting last night. And I've stopped and stared at my entry. It just wasn't good enough and I don't know. I don't know if I'm supposed to be happy or sad or if I'm supposed to miss her terribly or rejoice in her Heavenly home. I am all of those things.

But that's a lot of "I"s and that's what has made me stop writing.

This is Zoe's birthday, and from her first moment here, Zoe fought. Zoe fought and smiled while fighting. Zoe never said a word to me but I think if she could have she'd say that I'm supposed to be happy and rejoicing, and that I'm not supposed to quit. That she didn't quit. Her body was overcome by this sinful place but that, at best was a tie.

And now she wins.

I wish I could explain to you all of the things: the pressures and pain and temptations. The sadness that racks me almost instantaneously. The longing to look into her eyes. I wish I could explain how hard pressed I am at work, how Jen is staggering and stumbling - but bulling her way through her job.

But that's a lot of "I"s and it's Zoe's birthday.

Zoe lived simply and she loved completely and on her birthday, that's not a bad lesson for a mom and dad and family that are caught in a sea of stuff. Live simply and love completely. And smile.

On Zoe's birthday, she's given me a present.

He Knows

God loved His Son as much as I loved Zoe. More. So the being that can create the Nile River and the Grand Canyon with a word watched as His Son died.

And He loved His son as much as I love Zoe. But for me, I yelled for someone - for God - to do something. But He didn't. Just like when His Son died.

God knows. This is something He knows. I've wrestled my whole life if God knows, really knows what it's like to be in a bad relationship like i've been or to be tempted like I am.

But this is something He unequivocally knows.

Two Things

These two broadcast commercials are part of a huge on-air buy by Mr. Neumann everywhere but the Milwaukee market in Wisconsin. The commercial I shoot soon will include Milwaukee. I wrote and directed them with my team. As anyone in this industry knows....what you see isn't quite what I wrote...but close. :)

Featured: three of my kids...best friend...mother in law...nephew...

Blessed

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. - Matthew 5:4


The sermon text last week was this verse, and the pastor went out of his way to explain that mourning might not just mean mourning a death, and that blessed doesn't just mean "blessed" but another word. 


If you google the above verse, you'll get more sermons and thoughts from very intelligent men who say things like mourning might be if you lose a tough game. 


I'm going to stick with the verse for mourn. I'm not the only man who has lost his father, and honestly, if the actuarial tables work right, many of us will lose one or both of our parents while we walk this earth. And you'll mourn. 


And...losing a child - hopefully most of you will never even have to consider that loss. But you're going to find an almost larger-than-it-should-be part of our world has experienced. 


So while mourn might mean a 3-2 loss, i'm good with leaving it mourning amidst death because that's where we live, you and I. In this terrible place where people leave every day. Every minute. 


And I think the Bible guys got pretty close with "blessed." To me, "happy" is a frail thin shell of "blessed." To me, happiness is fleeting and non-essential. But blessed is necessary and worth seeking. "Blessed" meaning God is near. Not an emotion, just a statement of truth. "Heavy are rhinoceroses." Heavy is just what they are. We could try to figure different words to mean the same thing but we might do just as well to understand what "heavy" means.


The part where there's bigger holes in the translation is "comforted." Mostly because I'm not sure we spend any time knowing what that means. Meaning that most of us don't stop and think of how we comfort or if we know how to comfort or if the things we think are comforting are truly comforting. 


Check this out: the verb is the same verb used in this verse in Matthew 18:9: "²⁹"His fellow servant fell to his knees and begged him, 'Be patient with me, and I will pay you back.'"


The verb is the same as the part where the fellow servant begged him. 


Ok, instead of "comfort",  we have this verb that means to "call to one's side, beseech, to beg."


Who's doing the begging?


It says "they will be comforted." Me, the one who mourns. I am not the caller, not the one beseeching. Not the one exhorting. 


This God who catches each of our tears in His palm is coming to us and kneeling in front of us and calling us to Him. He's the one who's opening his arms and gently, emotionally, with great care, calling us to Him. Please, Greg. Please come here. Please, Greg. Come here and put your head on my chest and let me enfold you with the only thing that will make sense. Come.

Sacrifice

I'm using a cool iPhone app to try and read my way through the Bible. A lot stands out to me- a lot I thought I knew was slightly different than I remembered.

One of the most interesting parts is how early - by chapter 4 of the first book of the Bible - people are sacrificing to the Lord. And God's desiring it, even drawing conclusions about His people by their sacrifices. When Noah finally gets out of the Ark onto dry land, God makes his promise to never flood the Earth again - after he smells Noah's sacrifice. The way it's written, it's like God's promise was a reaction not to the severity of the flood, but to the sweetness of Noah's sacrifice.

Through all the stuff we've been through, I realize that our first reaction to tragedy is so childishly selfish, it's almost infantile. Jen called me last night. The van had a flat tire. I answered, "Oh...great." I was mad. we've had enough, haven't we? I don't want flat tires. When I found out about my father's tremendous decline, I was so angry. ANGRY. Is this the way God treats his servants? Lets them fall into terrible weakness? I was afraid. Afraid that in 30 years or so, that'd be me, and my kids would be struggling to deal with my weakness, and I'd be someone they'd be caring for.

Look, I don't want to sacrifice anything. I've been holding everything as tightly as I can. But the undeniable lesson is that what we're clutching isn't ours.

So it goes. I want Zoe back so I can hold her in her damaged body and feel her smiling face against my cheek. I want that. I want it so bad it breaks my heart. So does Nancy.

I never would have guessed life is this hard. But it's infinitely harder if we don't understand sacrifice, and how it pleases God and makes us somehow closer to the things He wants us to be.

The sacrifice He's asking for us us. To climb on to the altar and offer up our lives that we're so desperately trying to own and control. To learn the lesson that the earliest humans knew - that God loves a good sacrifice. It pleases Him. It draws Him close.

Take my sacrifice. I'm afraid I don't have much left. Make me new.

The Altar
by Nichole Nordemann

I'm at the end of myself, I just dropped out of the running
I don't recall when I last pulled the shades and said "here comes the sun, here comes the new day"
Someone remind me again that joy might show up on occasion
I'm sitting here with my hands on my head, and my eyes on the ground, wondering if I'll be found by You

Will you make me new? Will you take what's left of me?
I guarantee that it won't be a fair trade.
Will you set me free from what's keeping me afraid?
I know I've prayed it all before, but I'm back on the altar

I don't believe what they say about one foot in front of the other
If my life was a map, you'd see every last step just circling around, still lost, never found by You

So will you make me new? Will you take what's left of me?
I guarantee that it won't be a fair trade.
Will you set me free from what's keeping me afraid?
I know I've prayed it all before, but I'm back on the altar

Maybe last year I'd have made empty promises
Maybe last month I'd have tried to pull strings
But I don't have one single chip left to bargain with
The only thing left is me needing You to make me new

Will you take what's left of me?
I guarantee that it won't be a fair trade
Will you set me free from what's keeping me afraid?
I know I've prayed it all before
But I'm back
On the altar 

Better Days

I'm sure there are people out there who are pretty sure we're sleepwalking through these days. Tearful, sad. And that is true. 

But then, it's also true that life didn't stop and wait for us to work through something. It hasn't stopped once when I cry. It moves on and some of it is incredible, hilarious, marvelous. 

Aidan reported the other day that his butt felt better today. This was a relief, although we hadn't heard that his butt felt bad. 

Last night at the dinner table Ethan was trying to break out the "made you look" that he had just learned. So he kept trying to get Selah to look behind her. He had the fundamentals down, although there were two major problems with his delivery:

1. tell someone to look at something that quite possibly could be behind you. A spider is always a good one. Ethan told Selah there was a HEDGEHOG behind her. 

2. i capitalize HEDGEHOG to indicate that when Ethan said the word HEDGEHOG his eyes grew very large. He has big blue eyes, but now we would see the big blue eyes and lots of white. I was concerned I might have to pick an eyeball off of his plate.

We also have our first driver in the house. Isabel went to get her drivers license in a snowstorm. I told her as she went out that if she failed her test, and that was the worst thing that happened this week, then it'd be a good week. But she passed and now...now we don't really see her very often, but I hear that she's doing well. 

Teia's been steadfastly cleaning stuff in our garage for a project she has in her sights. This is good because the project pays money and because our garage is getting cleaned. Teia is always steadfastly Teia, with both feet firmly on the ground. 

Kellen's feet left the ground a few times last night while I almost lost my voice at his basketball game. I'm excited at how hard he plays and how he's beginning to understand that this life will demand so much of him. Yes, I'm one of those dads who believes athletics is a gateway to life. Would it surprise you to know that I was violently sick before a college tournament game but showed up for pregame, and coach told me to go back to my room, but i looked him square in the eyes and told him, "Coach, I'm playing." So I started and played the entire game. I remember none of it. 

Selah earned a speaking part in her play, and did it incredibly well. Selah is an inspired liar. I guess it's best to describe it as "improv." She'll tell stories with so much energy and animation that you aren't sure what percentage is made up. Surely 50%. Surely she didn't stab Benny in the thigh with a pencil. But is Benny a real person? We keep listening, and she's smirking and giggling at herself mid-lie. 

But there's still chats like the one I had with Elises above. And Jen, still in bed right now, clutching a little teddy bear that Zoe knew was hers. It's like the water's beautiful, inviting, warm. But there's a part that is so deep and cold. 

Purple Paraments

It's Lent, which is a better season than we give it credit for. There was a time, long ago, when i led a Bible study at my house, when we'd focus on the weeks and days that preceded Jesus' entrance into Jerusalem. It just put my heart right, and it was always wonderful to walk with Christ...kind of understand his state of mind. If any of you out there were with me back then (i doubt it) ...i miss you.

One thing I know is that the season of Lent has 40 days, but is actually 45 days long. That's because the Sundays aren't included in Lent. Lent is a time of sacrifice, of focusing on Jesus' suffering. But on Sundays, we have to take care of business. Sundays are when we celebrate Easter.

So I was wondering if the paraments on the altar changed on Sunday. A complete Lutheran nerd question. I asked a few people and realized...as I pulled out of church...I'd just call dad.

I know that death happens to everyone and everyone who faces it runs into that moment. It happens when i come home from work, put my keys down, and turn the corner. And there's no baby. But the fact that we all share that moment of absolute loss means nothing to me. It sucks.

Anyways...let me share a song that I accidentally fumbled across on the way up to Dad's funeral. It was perfect...it still is. Bat and Zoe had the two most infectious smiles I might ever encounter. If you know what I know, you can't wipe their smile off your face.

There's A Reason
by mercyme

Now's the time
Let the redeemed celebrate
If you know what I know
You can't wipe the smile off your face
Oh people, stand up and praise

There's a reason to dance
There's a reason to sing
Of the sacred romance
With our Savior and King
We lift up our hands
We fall on our knees
To the Son of Man
The reason we are free

There's a reason

All glory to
The King of Kings, Lord of Lords
Oh the value of Your worth
No worldly treasures can afford

And we praise You forevermore

There's a reason to stand
There's a reason to shout, to shout Your name on high
So we take up our cross, there's a reason to die
Because Jesus is alive

There's a reason
You are the reason
The reason we are free

Old Pictures

Teia's boss made an offer she can't refuse - sell his old stuff on eBay and Craig's List and she can keep 60%. Pretty good gig. Trouble is, our house is filled to the gills so Teia went out to our garage to make space for the boss's junk.

So, getting rid of some our junk so that she can bring some other junk in.

Teia came across a box of pictures - pictures from the old days. Pictures of other lives, houses. The kind of pictures where you have to guess what baby Dad is holding.

Kellen and Aidan could be twins. The big kids when they were the only kids. Little tiny Elise - with the big big wail. All this time passing...we're growing. We're growing old.

And I'm sure there's no time in Heaven. I'm sure that we're connected to those memories without the pictures. Connected to our praise and scars and those moments when we ministered and were left behind and found.

I'm sure that when I get there it will feel like I just entered along with the woman at the well and Dad and Zoe. And everyone will experience the joy, the flood of memory, the feel of wizened life and joyous rebirth you feel when you look at old pictures. It will make us young and old and perfect.

Something Terrible and Glorious

I boarded the plane - a little one hour hop from Milwaukee to Indianapolis. 


But it was the first time I've been on a plane since I was headed home and my Snoopy was gone, leaving behind a little 12 pound shell of cold beauty and sickness.


Gone.


As the plane rose above Lake Michigan, the plane banked, and through my tears I couldn't tell whether I was looking at the deep blue sky or the depths of the water. Shafts of sun made me avert my eyes. For the first time since I had left those weeks ago, I whispered something to Zoe. Maybe being a little closer to heaven and the imperceptible sky and depths I couldn't imagine made me feel closer.


When we landed I talked to Jen, who is fighting valiantly to hold on to what is true and right and peaceful in the face of all that is terrible and wrong and discordant. Writing thank you cards...that's necessary to show gratitude. But thanking people for...sharing in our grief, something we never wanted. It's all too hard. People aren't supposed to have to deal with this. Jen trying to process the outpouring of love and thank people for it while she wished it had never happened. Jen recounting her last minutes, her last months. The long lonely nights of loving our daughter. The long and lonely 25 days in the hospital in 2008. 


Time will heal, we're told. But do I want to heal? How will time heal? Make us forget? Make us not remember the sound she made when she wanted to laugh? The moment she came out of surgery and I whispered to her to come back to me? Maybe I don't want to heal. Neither Jen nor I want to forget.


My friend told me today that I had gone back to work too soon, and he might have been right. But as I stretch myself out and work towards something, it helps me deal with those terrible and glorious moments, helps me find a breath to breathe. 


 I walk with utter peace. I laugh and joke and smile. And I breathe through tears and weep until I cannot stand. And that is what I did yesterday, and probably will today. Maybe for a long time. 


My baby is gone, and she will never return. And that is terrible. God has taken her home and she knows love beyond that which everyone showed us, love beyond what I can understand, and that is glorious.

A Song For The Previous Post

sift through the ashes left behind.

Beauty Will Rise
by Steven Curtis Chapman

It was the day the world went wrong
I screamed til my voice was gone
And watched through the tears as everything
Came crashing down

Slowly panic turns to pain
As we awake to what remains
And sift through the ashes
That are left behind

But buried deep beneath
All our broken dreams we have this hope

Out of these ashes beauty will rise
And we will dance among the ruins
We will see it with our own eyes
Out of these ashes beauty will rise
For we know joy is coming in the morning
In the morning, beauty will rise

So take another breath for now
And let the tears come washing down
And if you can't believe, I will believe for you

Cause I have seen the signs of spring
Just watch and see

Out of these ashes beauty will rise
And we will dance among the ruins
We will see it with our own eyes
Out of these ashes beauty will rise
For we know joy is coming in the morning
In the morning

I can hear it in the distance
And it's not too far away
It's the music and the laughter
Of a wedding and a feast
I can almost feel the hand of God
Reaching for my face to wipe the tears away
You say it's time to make everything new
Make it all new

This is our hope
This is a promise
This is our hope
This is a promise

It will take our breath away
To see the beauty that's been made
Out of the ashes, out of the ashes

It will take our breath away
To see the beauty that He's made
Out of the ashes, out of the ashes

Out of these ashes
Beauty will rise
And we will dance among the ruins
We will see it with our own eyes
Out of this darkness
New light will shine
And we'll know the joy that's coming in the morning
In the morning
Beauty will rise

Oh, beauty will rise
Oh, oh, oh, beauty will rise
Oh, oh, oh, beauty will rise
Oh, oh, oh, beauty will rise

Blogger Silence

I didn't write this week not only because I am pretty sure I'd never read a blog about grieving, but because the process is stupid. If someone told you the only way to attain a goal was to undergo an intense process filled fatigue, anger, bitterness, incessant tears, doubts and loneliness....would you take on the process?

Jen and I spent a instant messenger conversation debating over who was more responsible for Zoe's death. Each of us was/is sure we are more responsible. It's a debate that will not be resolved, and frankly, since medicine will happily slap a "T18" label on her death, the very label we battled from minute one of Zoe's life....no one else will offer an opinion.

We fill our days with busywork, but there's still time to be haunted, time to long. Time to wish for less and more of the day.  Time to wish I could talk to my Dad, the wise counselor who always brought me back to the cross.

Walking around the store for Valentine's day trying to figure out what to get Jen. And knowing that Jen wants nothing but Zoe. So, it's likely this stupid plant with tiny heart-shaped leaves will not suffice. No matter, my card was declined. Leave the store filled with tears and guilt and anger.

One man, trying to be kind on the way out of church, told me he, too had lost his daughter. He said after four years of anger, he was able to find peace.

Four years? This is what we get?

When you're going through this, there's a common theme...you have a good moment, a good day or night, and then you feel sickened by the thought that you actually might be "over" it. And Zoe was not something you want to be "over." So you go back to jail, do not pass go, do not collect anything. You start to associate the only way you can truly miss her ...them...is to hurt.

Not to mention that the entire grieving thing seems 100% counter to Christianity, the cross, and Heaven. Zoe being able to live and not fight for life every day in Heaven is our solace. Dad free from all that encumbered him is peace to me. This grieving seems like chains of every evil - so I catch myself living in them and begin a new spiral - feeling guilty for feeling guilty. Feeling guilty for feeling angry for feeling alone.

See? You didn't want to read this, and writing it seemed like whining. But you want in this terrible head? You got it.

Sunday Morning

Sunday morning and that meant dad would be be gone already or in a room finishing up his sermon. It was the only day of the week he didn't make breakfast, and we'd hear the urgency in his footsteps, the joy-filled way he'd greet everyone as they doddered out of bed.

I was born on a Sunday, and dad wasn't there. He was in the pulpit, preaching. He had a job to do. One of the ushers told him as the offering plates were handed over.

I learned that from my dad. On the Saturday before Zoe's service, I told everyone there that this was business. Cry later. This was business and we were going to touch hearts with something worthy of my daughter. Work to do.

Zoe always had good days on Sundays. Putting clothes on meant a shirt, or a pillow...something would be close to her face, which was hilarious. Zoe's biggest grins involved face smushing.

Even though church was time from her favorite place - Mom and Dad's (her) bed under the ceiling fan, it wasn't long. And there was singing at church. Zoe always loved music.

I wish their jobs weren't done. Mine isn't. Sunday is God's day and His two servants loved it.My old pastor said "We are Easter people." Every Sunday is a celebration because Jesus is alive. Let the redeemed celebrate.

There's A Reason

by mercyme

Now's the time
Let the redeemed celebrate
If you know what I know
You can't wipe the smile off your face
Oh people, stand up and praise

There's a reason to dance
There's a reason to sing
Of the sacred romance
With our Savior and King
We lift up our hands
We fall on our knees
To the Son of Man
The reason we are free

There's a reason

All glory to
The King of Kings, Lord of Lords
Oh the value of Your worth
No worldly treasures can afford

And we praise You forevermore

There's a reason to stand
There's a reason to shout, to shout Your name on high
So we take up our cross, there's a reason to die
Because Jesus is alive

There's a reason
You are the reason
The reason we are free

Song and Dance

Amid my anger this morning, Jen's weak stomach, the Pediasure coupon that came up with my receipt at the store, the huge snowflakes silently falling and melting on my face that mixed with my tears, this song is the only thing louder. I am trying to hear the holy rhythm. He's still giving.

Song and Dance
 by andrew peterson

David's on his throne at sundown
His paper and his pen are in his hand
He's waiting on a song at sundown
As he gazes out across his holy land

And he thinks of old Goliath and he smiles
He can barely keep from laughing
He says, "great is the Lord and greatly to be praised"
He can hear the rivers clapping
Well, they're still clapping
To the same old song and dance

Well the cadence of the sea is just as steady
And the chorus of the hills is just as strong
And the faithfulness of God is just as mighty as it was
When the shepherd slew the giant with a stone

You can close your eyes and listen to the sea
You can feel the holy rhythm
Great is the Lord and greatly to be praised
For the mercy he has given
Well, he's still giving
It's the same old song and dance

I can hear creation singing his praise
That his love is everlasting
It's the same as it was a million years ago
I can still hear David laughing
And the rivers are still clapping
It's the same old song and dance

A Little Bat Ink

The Green Bay Press Gazette did a little feature on dad. Very nice.

Next Gen

 

(left to right) Piera Christiansen, Minte Christiansen, Izzi, Alexis Schaefer, Allana Randall, Teia

 Zoe's sisters and cousins - the next generation of Batiansila girls. All met, hugged and laughed with both Zoe and Bat.

She's Still Touching Lives

Zoe made the front page of the local paper, featuring the picture you see to the right. A woman caught me after Kellen's game and told me she had read the article and was so moved.

Meanwhile, Astros.com featured this article.

A Week Later

The cycle is complete. Dad's death interrupted the peace from Zoe's memorial. Remembering Zoe's loss just a week ago interrupts the peace from Dad's magnificent funeral.

Hopefully some days with fewer losses and funerals.