Sunward We've Climbed

While it is true that many of the people Bartlet drew toward himself have enjoyed what could be called spectacular successes in the political arena, it must be remembered that not all achievements are political. In fact, none of the things that truly matter in life are dependent on politics.

Jack McCosham, a fellow Bartlet student and the chief of staff for the Senate Minority Whip, once said that the original members of the Legacy were more than family by choice; they were family by fire. At first it seemed like just another trite expression, but the more thought that the idea was given, the more it came to be accepted as a truth.

When people are thrust together for eight years, toiling for a single united cause, seeing more of each other than those who are family by blood, being raked over the coals for the failures of another, and celebrating the other's victories, they cannot help but form close bonds. The bonds that formed between the original Legacy members were far stronger than blood.

Those of us who came after were inducted into this family by fire later, after the patriarch was no longer there to hold the family together.

The procession sombrely threaded its way through the streets; the flag-draped casket borne aloft by the honour guard was at the head with the black-clad mourners following behind in tight ranks. The route was lined with the solemn faces of those who had made the pilgrimage to pay their final respects in person to their former president. Dark-suited Secret Service agents lined the route, but there was not so much as a word from the crowd they were there to subdue.

As they left city hall, where his body had lain in state for the past week, and down the street toward where the spire of the church rose to touch the sky, they passed the silent groups with their sober faces. The walk through the streets was one of the concessions that had been made to the public in this a time when everyone was craving privacy.

Abbey followed immediately behind the casket, her head held resolutely high. Flanked on one side by President Nicholson and on the other by the ever-faithful Leo, she made no attempt to wipe away the tears that ran freely down her cheeks. There was something intensely private in her public display of grief. Her hand clutched her rosary so tightly that the beads made indentations in the soft flesh of her palm.

Behind her came her daughters and their families. Liz, Ellie, and Zoey, all leaning on their husbands as their pillars of support, kept their children close. Annie's fiancé walked steadfastly beside her, his eyes cast uncomfortably down at the ground. Unlike the others, he was unaccustomed to the pageantry that the others had long ago become used to. Charlie was caught between his own need to grieve for the man who had become like a father and his need to comfort the woman who was his biological daughter.

Behind them followed those who had come to be family. Josh and Donna each tightly held the hand of one of their children, located and brought home early from their trip. The foreign weight of a black yarmulke rested atop Josh's head; it was the way that he had been raised to mourn.

The relief that had crossed Toby's face when he saw yarmulkes on Josh and Mark had long since faded, replaced by the tight-lipped expression that was Toby's expression of repressed grief. The snow soaked through his flimsy cloth shoes, but he continued on, marking his respect. At his side, CJ matched his every stride with one of her own. Her face, even after her years of practice in front of the press, couldn't quite manage to hide the depth of her feelings.

Margaret walked with Sam. Leo had offered her the option to walk at his side, but she hadn't felt it was her place. Instead, Sam had offered her an arm. In an effort to push off having to deal with things himself, he was coping in his way; he was helping others. But the lines etched into his face and the too-bright sparkle of his eyes gave away all the feelings that he was trying to push down.

Behind them came the lines of students that had been his final project. They had come from the four corners of the globe when they heard of his death. At their head walked the four who had been exceptional among the extraordinary: Mark, like Toby and Josh, sporting the black cap of his faith; Sarah, not content to let the tears freely flow from her eyes, clutching a sodden handkerchief; Jack continually dipping a hand into the pocket of his jacket to trail his fingers over a rarely used rosary; and Alex, like Abbey, carrying her rosary openly, eyes turned toward the heavens.

Behind them swelled the ranks of others who could not be persuaded to stay away. Democrats walked alongside Republicans, senators beside professors, ambassadors behind congressmen.

The snow that had fallen that night, while they had sat vigil, was still laying thickly over everything, but the streets had been laid bare. Josiah Bartlet, the town's most illustrious son, was going home to rest for eternity in the same cemetery as his great-grandfather's great-grandfather and nothing would impede that final journey, just as nothing would stop the people who had come to line the route despite the chill.

Speakers had been set up in open areas so that the service could be broadcast to all, although the ceremony was to be private. Most of the various statesmen and politicians were sheltered in the parish hall; not even they were allowed in the church. People huddled in the areas nearest the speakers, shivering in the cold that came along with a New Hampshire winter morning, waiting to hear the finals farewells to the private man that had become a public servant.

There was no telling what things would catch the grief-dulled eyes of the mourners: the fluttering flag clutched tightly in the hand of a young boy; the group of Notre Dame students proudly showing their colours; the black-clad men standing almost rigidly at attention. Each person would have a different impression of the march past, just as each had different memories of the man it was commemorating.

It didn't take long to reach the old stone church; the priest was waiting on the steps to begin his last service to the former president. With ceremonial precision, the honour guard removed the flag from the casket. With white-gloved hands, they folded it and presented it to Abby as Leo spread the white pall over the smooth wood that housed the body of his best friend. The select few then filed silently into the church and the heavy wooden doors swung closed behind them.

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Outside, the speakers crackled.

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There was a long moment before anyone moved. The priest had stepped away from the microphone, but no one from the pews had yet stepped forward to speak. Only a few knew who it was to be, who the man himself had selected to complete this final duty. None of them looked in her direction until the soft creak of a wooden pew announced that she was ready.

Her footsteps echoed off the high, vaulted ceiling of the church as she made her way up to the front, genuflecting to the altar. She had been chosen to represent them all. She had been singled out to be the one voice that would speak for many.

"Over the past week," she began, unable to stop the tremor in her voice, "the story of Josiah Bartlet's life has been told and retold many times over. His achievements have been acclaimed and his failures have been analyzed."

She paused for a second, looking down to finger the pages that lay before her on the pulpit. Then she folded them suddenly with one small motion and the barely audible rustle of paper. Sam heard the sound and his eyes snapped upward to rest on her face. "A good man once said that a hero is willing to die for his country, but that he would much rather live for it," Alex said.

Margaret reached out to take her husband's hand as they listened to Alex continue. "Jed Bartlet would have been appalled if he knew his words were someday going to be used to describe himself. He never considered himself anything but an ordinary man thrust into extraordinary situations. He understood that the most is expected of those who have the most."

Toby lifted his eyes from their examination of the fringes of the prayer shawl that peaked out from beneath his suit jacket as she went on, "It can be said that in the end, he refused to let his better angels be shouted down by what some called his obsessive desire to win. He let his voice speak for the voiceless. And that is something to be respected, even if you didn't agree with the message."

Sarah ran her fingers nervously over the hem of her skirt, worrying it through them almost as though it were the rosary that her Protestant fingers had never held. "This is a time for celebrating life; the life that we still have and the life that Jed Bartlet lived," Alex carried on, her voice growing stronger.

"In many ways it was a remarkable life: he loved his wife with all of his heart; he was a loving father to three children, the grandfather of many more." Abbey reached up a shaking hand to wipe her face as she listened, her children around her. "He was the best of friends and an extraordinary teacher. And it just so happened that he was once the president."

Josh reached out to squeeze Donna's hand, seeking to comfort himself as much as he was seeking to comfort her. At the microphone, Alex paused for a second, and then began again. "My grandfather used to quote George Eliot and say, 'All partings carry an image of death.' He used to remind me that our parting words always deserve careful consideration because we can never tell when the parting will be final. The last words that Jed Bartlet left with me are ones that I heard many times before, when I turned to him for guidance: 'Remember what we did in the time when our eyes looked to the heavens and, with outstretched fingers, we touched the face of God.'"

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"More than anything else, this encapsulates what we should remember of him. He taught us we must never allow ourselves to become cavalier in our evaluation of this world, with all of its injustices. We cannot hold our obligations fulfilled until we have fought the good fight to its finish, to victory. And then we must never cease to ask, 'What's next?'"

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"When did you write that?" Toby asked, repeating her words back to her.

"On the walk over," she answered. "I'm sorry that what you and Sam wrote didn't get to be heard. It was really beautiful."

"You know," Toby said, his eyes wandering over the group gathered at the gravesite, "he used to do that all the time. We'd spend hours writing a thing and then he'd get up and not use a word of it."

"It used to drive me crazy," Sam admitted, coming up to stand beside them. "I'd spend days finding just the right word and then…"

"Most of the time it was just inane drabble," Toby interrupted. "But every once in a while, the words that would come out of his mouth would have more force and more meaning than anything our hours of work could have turned out. You know why?"

She shook her head. Sam answered for her. "Because those were the times that he was speaking from his heart, not from his head."