What happens after we die? There’s much speculation about the experience for the dead, but for those left behind, for the living, we know stories are what happens. We become stories–the stories we told, and the stories we lived.
Last week, a popular Irish singer-songwriter, a community artist, an activist, and a generous spirit of a man, Glen Hansard, passed away at the age of fifty-six. Social media and news outlets flooded with tributes from around the world. For me, what was most touching were the stories. Radio stations across Ireland invited people to call in and share memories of Hansard. Most callers offered a story. I listened to one of these call-in shows, and in the stories, you could feel the man, feel the direction of his heart. A young couple remembered bumping into the celebrated singer in Dublin and then were shocked when Hansard agreed to play a song at their wedding. A mother told how Hansard spotted her daughter in line at a concert—in a wheelchair, suffering from leukemia—and invited mother and daughter backstage to sing warm-ups with him. A homeless advocate recalled a Christmas Eve when Hansard went busking on Grafton Street in Dublin, using his celebrity to raise money for a homeless charity. The night was so successful, Hansard returned every Christmas Eve for fifteen years, raising over two million dollars.
As a fan, I have my own story. At a concert my wife and I attended with our kids in 2014, in Jacksonville, Oregon. Hansard was touring with his band The Frames and his singing and writing partner Markéta Irglová—with whom he shared an Oscar in 2008. At the beginning of the show, Hansard mentioned the band was off-balance because, just the day before, their violinist had lost his father and had to rush back to Ireland. He and the band were grieving for their friend, and the absence felt even more profound because the violin parts were missing in each song. Then Hansard got an idea. He asked if the audience would help round out the band and send a prayer to their hurting friend by singing the violin parts. At various points in the evening, he taught the nearly two-thousand member audience how to sing the violin parts. Using call and response, we learned the simple melodies and droning undertones of the missing violin. Then the band would play, and Hansard would direct us where to fit in.
It was a deeply spiritual, communal experience as we stood and sang together, removing the artifice between performer and audience. After the encore, the evening coming to a close, Hansard told the audience about the tradition of an Irish wake. He shared memories of attending wakes as a child in Ireland. He then explained that at every Irish wake, at some point in the evening, someone will stand and sing “The Parting Glass” from the perspective of the deceased. In this song, Hansard explained, the one who has died says to family and friends: “Thanks for loving me. Thanks for life shared. Forgive me any harms I’ve caused. I carry no anger. I hold no fear. I let go all regrets. I’m off to a better place. I leave you nothing but joy.”
Hansard stood at the edge of the stage, away from the microphone, and sang the song a cappella, inviting the audience to join in the chorus. It was deeply moving, all of us standing, silent, listening to Hansard’s unamplified, naked, lyrical voice singing into the night the ancient farewell of the departed.
And then…
In the quiet between verse and chorus, a drunken heckler called out, “Fresh fish!” “Fresh Herring!” And then laughed at his own rude disruption. It was obnoxious, and you could feel the whole audience tighten, many shushing and sending angry glances at the jeering man. Hansard continued singing, unfazed. The poignancy returned, and now Hansard had us singing the chorus, “Good night and joy be with you all.” And then the defiler called out again, laughing, enjoying his power to wreck the moment. The audience felt murderous. Many shouted at the man. I too was preparing my torch and pitchfork when Hansard, unruffled, soothingly said, “That’s welcome too. All is welcome.” And then led us in the chorus again. I felt myself, and the rest of the audience, soften. The drunken man continued his heckling, but now it was included, just part of the messiness of humanity. Hansard sang on, inviting us to join the chorus with him. Until we all sang together,
“Now raise to me the parting glass, good night and joy be with you all.” There was a moment of silence as our voices faded at the song’s closing, and before the applause could begin, Hansard said, “No anger. No fear. No regrets. Joy be with you.”
May we all live our lives as the loving stories we want felt at our passing.
