At Distant Worlds, they sang Hymn of the Fayth, synced to the cutscene. Less than a week before my mother’s funeral, I started crying, as I supposed I might have. I thought I could at least keep it together until Zanarkand — the song for which I attended in the first place. It’s not as though I hadn’t watched this cutscene of the Sending before, many times.
I kept thinking of Yuna as a provider of a service, though. Someone who was good at what she did. Yes, there was the morbid self-sacrificing part of it later, but first and foremost her job — what she travelled her world doing — was to give comfort. To give those people sobbing at the water’s edge, staring at the wrapped bundles of what had been their loved ones bobbing beneath the waves, the impression that there was some scrap of final goodness to be gained from all this. Because a summoner was there, and could release the souls of their loved ones to a peace they, those remaining, hadn’t been able to grant them in mortal life. A gift they couldn’t give.
The betrayal, the lie she is told, cuts the player deeply, sure, for the tax on the characters you by then love. But for Yuna as a provider of this service — someone who at great physical and emotional cost has travelled the countryside releasing the spirits of the dead to what she thought — what the people clutching at her skirts believed — was rest, to discover this falsehood is vicious. Her one job, the one thing she was good at, and had studied for years to learn to do, turned out to be a lie. Not only was she being used, but she had been, without her knowledge or consent, using others. Hundreds of them. And all those people who looked at her through tears before her service, and who probably looked at her through tears after, too, but who through their snot expressed sore, aching gratitude — to discover that rather than peace, what you had been doing that whole time had been “releasing” those souls to feed a kind of machine…how bitter. How cruelly undermining of everything you thought you had to bring to the world.
And I found myself crying, there in that theater full of shrill fangirls and too-tall guys who reeked of cheap weed, because I remembered my mother saying, for years, that she’d done what she’d done — studied what she had, lived where she did, around the world — to provide a service. A very specific, medical service to people who needed it. She was good at it. Everyone who keeps throwing her past at me, thinking their sudden ambush of memories helps me, has made this clear. She was good at what she did.
It wasn’t a lie…the wounds she healed stayed that way, and the muscles she coaxed back into functioning continued to grasp and grip and turn and manipulate objects in this world. Her speciality was hands — the most devastating thing for craftsmen to lose, yes, but even laypeople, as I learned one year, can have so much they love taken away through the loss of their hands. Even the ability to clutch at the people they love.
What she healed stayed healed, but there was no return favor. She fell apart and stayed that way. I thought of the Hymn of the Fayth as the man whose faith I did not share read words seeded throughout books and movies as words that give peace. Well, no — he didn’t read them. His finger marked a page in a closed book, but he didn’t need to read them because he’d memorized them already. This was his job. To stand here in the blazing sun for ten minute segments in front of strangers either crying or holding rigidly, desperately still in order not to. To stand there and speak words that bring people in stories peace. Close-up shots, and piano solos, and laid-down flowers and peace.
It was this that I appreciated, more than any particular affinity for the Bible passages he trotted out. The fact that this was his job. That he was a provider of this service, and went to bed at night feeling as though — one assumes; he was younger than me but not by enough to still lie to himself about his worth — the strangers he saw in streams that day had been served. In some way. He didn’t try to chum it up as small-town ministers I’d met in the past had done — he did not pretend, in speech or in manner, to have been my friend, or my mother’s. He was a stranger, doing his job. A kind of healer, rehabilitating us to grasp and grip and manipulate objects in this, the world-that-remains, even if we don’t much wish to. He’d do it for the next group gathering on the hill behind us. And the next, and the next. And then he’d go home and feel that work had been done.
And I want, very much, for him never to feel that it was all a lie, or that he’d been used or using people. The passages he kept quoting are just scraps of stories, even though they aren’t the stories that are dear to me. In the hands of others — the organized bodies who archive them and form policies based too much upon them, for example — they are weapons, and wretched. But in the gloved hands of a stranger on a sunny hill, they’re just tools used to do a job. Or to try to. I can’t resent him for that effort.
Nor could I summon shame — I checked — when, looking right or left or anywhere except at the tiny box in front of me that held what had been my mother — I kept hearing the choir singing Hymn of the Fayth three thousand miles away, and seeing shining streaks of soul-stuff visibly releasing those gathered from a loss their knees were pebbled and bruised under the weight of bearing.