The film Four Weddings and a Funeral premiered the same year I graduated from college, and I vividly recall the desire to leap into that enchanting world. It was an era where slightly awkward British singles navigated the intricate realms of love and loss, all while attending extravagant social gatherings and spending nights in castles and pubs. Hugh Grant, in his quirky and endearing style, was surrounded by a cast that blurred the boundaries between friends and family. At that time, it felt like a perfect depiction of ordinary individuals grappling with the extraordinary challenges that come from true love and heartache.
Fast-forward over twenty years, and I’m now happily married to my own floppy-haired prince charming, with no scandals lurking in the shadows that I know of. We are blessed with three wonderful children, a large and lively extended family that fills our lives with immense joy and just the right amount of chaos, and a circle of friends—both old and new—who provide laughter and support. If I were to summarize our life in cinematic terms, I’d liken it to My Big Fat Greek Wedding meets Steel Magnolias, with a sprinkle of Toy Story on top.
However, last week, my whimsical desire to jump into Four Weddings and a Funeral almost turned into reality, albeit in reverse. In an unexpected twist of fate, I found myself attending three funerals and a wedding within just five days. It all began with the news of my friend’s mother passing away after a prolonged illness. Two days later, another friend mourned the loss of her mother following a courageous battle with Alzheimer’s. The day after that, I learned that a former colleague had lost his wife. I found myself dreading logging into social media as my newsfeed appeared to be a continuous reel of sorrow.
To describe that week as “strange” would be an understatement. My days were filled with typical summer activities—driving the kids to swim practice and vacation Bible school—while I scrambled to complete my work. Every evening, I quickly exchanged my casual mom attire for a simple black dress the moment my husband returned home. As I prepared to watch two daughters—now mothers themselves—bid farewell to their own moms, my heart ached when my little girl hugged me tightly and said, “Come right back, Mommy.”
In a particularly surreal moment, we stopped at the third funeral en route to the wedding. Within a single hour, we witnessed one man pledging to love and cherish until death, while another grieved for having done just that. It was a poignant reminder of life’s cycle, enough to leave even Mufasa from The Lion King feeling disoriented.
As my husband and I held hands at the wedding, I realized that I hadn’t attended many funerals in my life. Most of my relatives who passed on were overseas, and the funerals of family friends during my childhood were typically adult-only events. In my culture, we excel at celebrating love. This was evident in the gathering of over 500 guests—an average-sized crowd for our community—who came together to eat, drink, and share joy alongside the newlyweds. From generous platters of food to live music and vibrant dancing, we know how to celebrate weddings, engagements, and even baby showers. However, when it comes to loss, we often struggle.
In recent years, I’ve attended funerals referred to as “Celebrations of Life.” This concept is challenging for me to grasp since, when grief envelops our community, everything seems shrouded in darkness. Laughter is scarce, and joy feels distant. In funeral homes, silence often reigns, interrupted only by quiet sobs and fervent prayers. Traditionally, widows and close family members wear black for a full year after their loved one’s passing, and sometimes even longer. When you love deeply, the void left by that love can feel insurmountable. But is it possible for love and loss to coexist?
The poet Rumi once expressed that sorrow and joy are intricately connected. He stated, “Sorrow prepares you for joy. It violently sweeps everything out of your house, so that new joy can find space to enter.” After the final credits rolled on my week of three funerals and a wedding, I reflected on Rumi’s words. The following morning, my family attended church, where my youngest insisted we light a candle. Holding his hand, we ignited a new wick from an already lit candle, and I watched his face illuminate with joy as the flame flickered to life. It felt like that moment when your favorite film comes alive on the big screen or fades into memory—a brief dance of light and darkness.
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In summary, life is a blend of joy and sorrow, love and loss. While attending three funerals and a wedding in a single week was unusual, it served as a poignant reminder of the intricate tapestry of human experience, where moments of joy and grief coexist in a delicate balance.