t 'n t luoma

My name is Tim Luoma, I’m Bill’s cousin.

A little over two years ago I stood at a service like this one to speak for our grandmother. Nana had 91 years, and there was almost too much that could be said about her life. Bill had only 16 years, and it seems there are no words. No words to explain or describe or relieve the suffering of a life lost too soon.

Perhaps the best we can do is offer our presence, to his father and mother, to Rob and Betty-Anne, and to his brother, Joe. I wish you could be up here to take in the sea of faces that surround you, to capture and to carry this moment, when in the midst of tragedy.

Sometimes when words fail us, we have to look for another way to express ourselves. Some of Bill’s family came up with some numbers to describe Bill and his life:

For example: 1 would be the number of times Bill skipped school to go to the Buc’s Super Bowl Victory Parade whereas 500 would be the number of times Bill watched the movie The Patriot. And there are more:

165: the number of pounds Bill could bench-press
57: the number of treats Bill fed the dog every day
50: the number of ruts Bill made in the yard made with the golf cart
30: the number of kids in the Pebble Creek Posse, a circle of close friends
10: the number of times a day Bill reached down inside the leg of his pants looking for his cell phone
6: the number of pages for text messages on Bill’s cell phone bill
5: the number of trips his parents made with him through the years to the emergency room
4: the number of times Bill changed his outfit every day
3: the number of trees in the yard, Bill liked to climb
2: the number of loved ones who have gotten a tattoo to honor Billiam’s life

But numbers only get us so far. Who could count the number of AutoWeek magazines he had read, or the number of times he was told to pull up his shorts? Who knows how many times he rescued his mother from snakes around the house? Who knows how many golf balls he sold back to the golfers on the course near their house? Who knows how many times he tore up the back porch, only for his parents to repaint it and have him tear it up again?

Who could count the friends he has, or the lives he touched? Who knows how many of those friends will drive just a bit slower, just a bit more carefully, knowing the an accident can happen to any one of us? Who knows how many stories will be shared in the days and weeks to come, how many memories will turn sadness into comfort as we remember the gift that Bill is, and will always be, to those who had the privilege to know him, to love him, and to be loved by him?

Someone asked how many days Bill had lived. I went back and counted them up: 5,851. 16 years and a few months. Not long enough, not nearly long enough.

We’ve heard some wonderful readings of Scripture, the first place I would turn for comfort and encouragement and strength in a time like this. But another set of words kept coming back to me. They are the words of the song “Seasons of Love” from the musical Rent:

Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes
How do you measure — measure a year?
In daylights — In sunsets
In midnights — In cups of coffee
In inches — In miles
In laughter, in strife
In five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure a year in the life?
How about… love?
How about love?
How about love?
Measure in love
Seasons of love

However we measure Bill’s life, we’ll come up with one undeniable fact: it was far too short. But even though it wasn’t a long enough life, it was a full life. It was a life filled with love. Even though Bill didn’t get enough seasons, the seasons he saw were seasons of love.

Two years ago we gathered together to share stories about Nana.
Tonight we’ll gather together to share stories about Bill.

Meanwhile, as we grieve our loss, we know that Bill has been welcomed into heaven by so many relatives who have gone before him, and if I could add one picture to all the pictures that we’ve seen and shared these past few days, it would be the picture I envision of what’s happening in heaven tonight: Bill sitting with his grandmother, asking her to share some of her stories that he always loved to hear.

Finally, I wanted to share an exchange that Bill had with his mother many times. Betty-Ann would say: “I love you from here to the moon” and Bill would reply “I love you from here to eternity.” Not to be outdone, Betty-Anne would tell him “I love you from here to eternity and beyond and back” and Bill would laugh and tell her “There’s no such thing!”

But on this night I’m sure if Bill could speak to us, he’d tell us that he knows there is an eternity and beyond and back, because his love reaches out from there to us, just as our love reaches out from here to there.

Peace be with you.

AMEN.