Not to the Swift

Chapter 12

A cold snap struck the Midwest in the middle of November, bringing the first snow of the season on the day of Chris Washington's funeral, one week after his death.

Attendees arrived from all directions, clad in black or at least dark apparel, whatever clothes they possessed most suitable to the somber gathering. Two local news stations set up cameras and took video footage of the arrivals. One reporter questioned passersby about their opinions of Stapleton's police force.

Bishop Simms stood at the front door with the First Lady beside him, greeting their church family and those who came to pay respects with grave composure.

George and LaTasha dodged the spectacle at the front, despite Bishop Simms' urging. They stood at the side door of New Hope Tabernacle, composing themselves before entering. Their deep breaths puffed out clouds of vapor in the crisp air, sending snowflakes fluttering in the breeze.

It was a beautiful day of sorts, in that bittersweet fashion of winter. The barren branches, frigid gusts, chilly gray sky, and dusting of frost on every surface conveyed a sense of heaviness appropriate for the emptiness and grief.

"Chris loved the snow," LaTasha whispered. "He would be glad about today."

George managed a weak smile. "He loved to shovel snow, if people paid him. But yeah, he'd be glad."

René entered with Nana earlier, taking unusual front row seats in their home church. Nana wanted to sit in the third row, where they sat each week. "In the same spot my Frederick and I worshipped the Lord all our years together," she'd told the bishop.

But on this matter, Bishop Simms did not budge. The family would be at the forefront.

In more ways than one, George thought. One of the camera crews turned its attention to the couple, but—in a pleasant surprise—maintained a polite distance between themselves and the family of the slain.

"You ready?" George asked.

LaTasha shook her head. "I don't know how I ever could be."

"Me neither." He squeezed her hand, and she clutched his tight. "But we gotta do this."

They slipped through the side door and into the church.

* * * * *

"My friends," Bishop Simms intoned, "my brothers and sisters in the Lord, and our esteemed guests who come to pay respects, we look on these proceedings, and the tragedy must give us pause.

"Who knows the number of their days? Who can say with certainty that their tomorrow is guaranteed to come? And yet, how much more piercing is the sorrow, how much heavier the crushing weight when one of our precious young people falls victim to Death's cold sting?"

The polished brown casket occupied the center of the church altar. The chairs reserved for the Bishop and First Lady on Sunday mornings had been removed. A small wreath of white flowers hung atop an easel, on which rested a framed picture of Chris Washington from graduation day at Franklin Middle School the previous year.

"When I heard the terrible news of young Chris's passing, I sat back at my desk. I did not know what to say. What words could anyone speak that would justify such loss or provide comfort to such grief? It would take more wisdom than my own paltry supply.

"So I turned to the words of the wisest of the wise, King Solomon himself." The bishop's tone deepened to the oratory preaching style of a church service. "It was in the very passage I was to prepare for next Sunday's sermon, but it struck me like lightning from on high when I read these words aloud in the quiet of my study: