We learn in the Retreating
How vast an one
Was recently among us --
A Perished Sun

Endear in the departure
How doubly more
Than all the Golden presence
It was -- before --
        -- Emily Dickinson

I left the house at seven this morning, arrived at the Lancaster Host Resort about fifty minutes later, loaded three girls and their gear into the car, turned around, and arrived back home just before nine. I made it clear to Lynn and the other girls that this event would not be like going to a basketball game over at the school that starts at 11:00. We couldn't leave the house at ten of and expect to be accommodated. So barely more than an hour later I picked up each girl again. 

This time they were clad not in the flannel pajamas they'd stumbled down to the hotel lobby in, nor even the jeans and turtlenecks they favor for school. They were all in tailored skirts, shirts, and jackets in subdued colors, hose, and what Lynn used to call "clicky shoes," that is, dress pumps instead of sneakers. Their solemn faces and mature demeanor brought tears to my eyes, and the day's sad duty hadn't even started yet.

We arrived at the school at about 10:15, not a minute too soon. The parking lot was already half full, but we all got seats, Lynn and her friends with other students in several rows near the front. I sat with our pastor and another mother. Across the way I saw the girl whose nominating essay about Mr. Rosenthal had won him Pennsylvania Teacher of the Year recognition last fall. She lives in Ohio now. She and her mother must have driven twelve hours to be here. By 10:40 all seats were taken and people were standing three and four deep in the aisles. More people spread out down the hallways.

The casket was at the front of the space, draped in a pall lettered in Hebrew, with a lighted candle at either side. At just after 11:00 the rabbi entered, with Mr. Rosenthal's family, his wife who has had a number of surgeries and walks with a cane, and an adult son and daughter. (The daughter has a little girl born last spring. The son's wife is expecting a child this spring. Their first child died in infancy some years ago.)

The service lasted about an hour, and when I considered how quickly it had to be put together, I was even more impressed by its quiet dignity. The rabbi explained the few parts that were conducted in Hebrew (some chants, a prayer, and the rending of the garments at the end) in such a way that no one unfamiliar with the tradition needed to feel lost, but also so that you didn't think you were at some Diversity Day demonstration. The rabbi spoke a eulogy, as did the school principal, a former principal, the president of the student council, and both of Mr. Rosenthal's children.

The air in the auditorium was stuffy and the heat level rose as things proceeded. About forty minutes into the service a man standing along the side aisle slumped to the floor. The rabbi noted that there were a few seats available here and there as well as a number of them in the row the family was occupying, and those who had been standing a long time should not be shy about seeking them. Immediately, a boy and a girl among the students stood up. The boy said, "Rabbi, these seats are available now," and suddenly four rows of kids were on their feet and moving into the center aisle. And I am not shy about saying that that first girl on her feet was my daughter.

And that's when I started to cry. "Don't we just have the best kids," I said to my companions.

The words that touched me most came from the rabbi. He said that Mr. Rosenthal is teaching us his final lesson in the lights that he lived by -- strive to do your best, plan carefully but be ready for anything, and never let a good word go unsaid. If there are people in your life who need to know that they have blessed you, then tell them, now, today. If there are people in your life who already know that, tell them anyway. Speak your love. Speak it yet again. Speak it one more time.

After the funeral Lynn and some of her friends went over to Bagel Lovers', the place Mr. Rosenthal went every Sunday morning to read the New York Times. Later in the afternoon some of them came here. They used trash can lids and plastic trash bags to slide down the swale and the sloping embankments that ring the snow-filled retention pond. They came in soaked through, laughing and shouting and asking for hot chocolate. The same kids who had been so solemn and so adult only a few hours earlier were now acting  like ten-year-olds, and I marveled at their resiliency.

They have a hard week ahead. And so does whoever comes in to take up the tasks Mr. Rosenthal left unfinished. I keep them all in my prayers.

And, heeding the rabbi's advice, I say to each of you reading this, thank you. Thank you for being my readers, thank you for justifying the resources of time and talent I expend on this endeavor. And if there are people in your life who need to hear a good word from you, then do it now.