Funeral in a small town.

I don't think of my town as being small. Sure, it was pretty small compared to New York City, from whence I hailed. And it was smaller when we moved here than it is now. But when our church hosted a funeral for a police officer killed in the line of duty, it seemed minuscule.

Thousands descended on the town. NYPD, EMS, NYFD. Politicians in entourage vans and helicopters. Police from other cities, other states. Family and friends of the deceased. Police motorcycle clubs. Military. Retired cops. Locals who wanted to show their love. Locals who were just curious. Everybody, everybody came to show their respects, and it shut the whole place down.

I'd never seen anything like it. The schools had to close. All businesses were either closed or inundated with out-of-towners. Streets were lined with little American flags. Every major road was closed off, and any side road of any size. The new pastor at the church where the thing was held was thrown into the deep end, but apparently carried off his duties with aplomb.

I only saw this because I had a mission that took me out of the house that morning, and I made the mistake of waiting too long to do it. Everywhere I drove I ran into roadblocks. I felt awful just being out, not like they were in my way, but like I was an inconvenience to the mourners. So I got home as fast as I could.

What brought all this to mind was the crowds. Now our town is sleepier than it has been since there was a farm in the middle of the main road, I think. With the sheltering-in-place rules, and general fear of COVID-19, things are pretty quiet. But I saw that picture above that I had taken a day or so after the funeral, and I remembered when we had quite the crowd, the biggest I had ever seen. God bless our officers.