We all wanted to show Marcia and her family our love and support (both the church nationals and the missionaries), so we took food over to their house and talked and prayed with the family (her mother's brother was killed). We also attended the funeral in a smaller town about 25 minutes outside of Cusco. I was there as an observer, ready to be stoic, and ready to get through the funeral and get back home without feeling too much pain. We arrived in the town about 10 minutes before the funeral procession started. This was my first Peruvian funeral experience.

At home, I have attended several funerals. They have all been beautifully done, in hushed, quiet, and attractive rooms, with the family sequestered off to the side behind some partition during the service to experience their grief in private. Here, however, the funeral proved to be quite a different experience. Beautiful nonetheless, just very different. We hopped out of our pastor's pickup truck, of course, the only white faces in a sea of Peruvians. I think everyone in this little town either knew each other or was related to each other. We knew that the uncle who had died had left behind four young children and their mother (his common law wife).

The procession began. The first thing I saw ripped my heart and brought the tears. Two young boys, about 12 and 9 years old, were walking in front of the casket, sobbing. Dirty, sad, tired; crying for their Daddy who would not come home any more. They were followed by a crowd of casket bearers with the casket, the weeping extended family, and a band of about 10 men playing horns and drums. Friends followed the family, and we tagged along at the end of the procession.

I think my tears stopped briefly when I realized we had to climb about 1/2 mile up the side of the mountain to the cemetery. The entire procession had to stop several times to rest and catch their breath. (Remember, there's not much oxygen at 11,000 feet). I was doing fine, climbing, thinking, and the tears had stopped, but the heaviness in my heart for those little boys remained... we arrived at the cemetery, but then stopped again at the entrance, so that family and friends could gather around the casket to pray and speak before we entered. We were way in the back, but could still hear the wailing and crying of the family as they shared their last words with loved one, at time beating on the casket and crying, "Why? Why?"

The next step was to march inside the cemetery to bury the casket, with everyone throwing flower petals into the hole. (We stood back and watched this part). Then we all went outside the cemetery to speak to the family: a widow, and the four young children. The 12 years old boy cried and cried. That was heart-breaking.

We decided to go ahead and leave before the next step of the procession (that is, where everyone gets drunk). It was such an experience, seeing the raw grief of the people who had lost someone they loved, being half way up the hillside, looking around at the beauty of the country (which is also very raw), and watching the sun go down.

So many times in life I don't want to experience the pain. I don't want to hurt anymore. I want my grief to be sophisticated and hidden. But I cannot hide here. Everything seems so raw sometimes: the emotions, the needs, even the landscape. But God keeps me grounded in this way, and keeps me close to him in a way that I have never experienced before.

Please pray for the family of Marcia's uncle. Please pray for our church, that we will not forget them, but can reach out to this family. The town in which they live is known for its witchcraft. It is an especially dark place.

Thank you all again for bearing through a long letter. May God bless you. Remember to pray for one another!