BOB ABERNETHY: A cold, early spring morning in Milford, Michigan. As he has every day for 30 years, Thomas Lynch sits down to write. He is a successful essayist and, first of all, a poet. But he writes only part time.
His full-time job is across the street. Like his father before him, Lynch is Milford's funeral director.
THOMAS LYNCH: Where's the hearse?
ABERNETHY: Poetry and funeral direction may seem strange companions to some, but not to Lynch.
MR. LYNCH: It is the same enterprise: to organize some response to what is unspeakable. We need a way to say unspeakable things, and funerals do. So do poems.
ABERNETHY: On this day, with the family's permission, we were present at the funeral of a 30-year-old Milford man killed in a motorcycle accident.
MR. LYNCH (to Funeral attendees): Ladies, if you would take a seat. Mass will be starting shortly.
ABERNETHY: Lynch stood with the family as they said goodbye and the casket lid was closed. He believes strongly in the importance to the living of being able to see the dead.
Lynch
also values the funeral as a ceremony. Honoring the dead, he says, gives meaning
to life. MR. LYNCH: The fashions have changed, but the fundamental obligation of a funeral to sort of bear witness to a death in the family and to initiate remembrance -- that's pretty much the same.
ABERNETHY: Earlier, Lynch drove us around Milford.
MR. LYNCH: Down this street, I don't think there is a house in the past 30 years that has not had a death in the family.
ABERNETHY: Most deaths, says Lynch, are of the aged, peacefully. But too many, he adds, are random and violent. The worst are the deaths of children.
MR. LYNCH: I remember that as a younger person, I used to often shake my fist in God's face when there was a death of a child and say, you know, "What did you have in mind here, God?"
ABERNETHY: Lynch acknowledges that the heartbreak of all that can be overwhelming.
MR. LYNCH: In a very real sense, grief is, you know, the sort of tax we pay on loving people. And you see abject, acute grief a lot.
ABERNETHY: Lynch says all that pain both tests his faith and requires it.
MR.
LYNCH: Some days, you know, it seems like stating the obvious to say, you
know, God loves us. Other days it seems like we are entirely alone. ABERNETHY: On such days, I asked, what do you do?
MR. LYNCH: Pray. Yeah. That seems to work. And I don't know if it's the saying of it or someone at the other end hearing of it. And this is like poetry, you know. But it works.
ABERNETHY: What also works, for Lynch, is the antidote of writing: creativity that combats the depression that can accompany what some call "the dismal trade."




ABERNETHY:
The titles of Lynch's books disclose how much his trade influences his writing:
STILL LIFE IN MILFORD; THE UNDERTAKING, a National Book Award finalist; and his
latest, BODIES IN MOTION AND AT REST.
MR.
LYNCH (reading poetry): "I want a mess made in the snow so that the earth
looks wounded, forced open, an unwilling participant. Go to the hole in the ground.
Stand over it. Look into it. Wonder and be cold. But stay until it's over, until
it's done." 