Mourning
I was fine. For about three years I had been preparing myself for that day; I knew it was coming soon. I always asked myself what I'd do when it happened. Would I be upset? If I was, would I show it? Would the world stop spinning? What about everyone else; how would they react? It seemed like that day would never come, but then it did. And as soon as it did it started to feel like a distant memory--fading at first around the edges, creeping its way towards the center of my memory like a dissolving acid.
We hadn't been home long. Our move back across the Mississippi River was a long haul, but we were here, back where there were hills, pork barbecue, and boiled peanuts. We hadn't even unpacked the boxes in our temporary rent house. I was getting used to the routine (or lack thereof) of being the "new guy" when my phone rang.
I knew who it was and what they were going to say: "She's getting worse. It won't be much longer now. Can you do the funeral?" What could I say but "Yes"? Of course, at the time there was no real need to plan it, no real need to get all worked up. It could be weeks, months, maybe a year before I'd need to pack the dark suit, Bible, and funeral service and head south. But it wasn't.
A few days later the final call came--I knew it would. I couldn't put off reality any longer. So I packed the suit, the Bible, the plans, got folks to cover for me on Sunday, and I headed home (would it ever be home again?).
I sat with my family, listened to a few stories, and went over how things would go the day of the service; I was fine, nothing to worry about. The visitation was on a Sunday, so my wife and I went to church that morning, out to lunch, and then to the funeral home to meet my family. And there she was. Honestly, I didn't recognize her: her glasses were way too clean, and she was wearing makeup. Again, I was fine, nothing to worry about. I watched family and friends I hadn't seen in years (some I had never seen at all) come in and out, talk to my dad, my aunts and uncles, and then leave. I saw them cry, heard their stories, and witnessed their genuine admiration for a woman that meant something in their lives. And I was still fine.
The morning of the service came; it was time to leave the "grandson" clothes folded neatly in my suitcase and put on the dark suit of a minister. I arrived early, with the family for the service, waited for about an hour with them in the room with casket, and then the funeral director came into the room, shut the doors, and told us how the service would go. Still, I was fine.
Then, the funeral director turned to me and said, "I'm going to ask the minister to pray before we go out into the chapel." And with a voice I've heard countless times coming from my own mouth on Sunday morning, I said, "Let us pray."
But only one other word came out after that, "God..."
That was it. That one syllable floated in the air around me for what seemed like an eternity, all the while I felt as if my body would fall to the floor in sobbing convulsions. For it was there, in that moment, that I realized I wasn't fine. It was there, in that moment, with my head bowed and my eyes closed, that I couldn't escape it anymore, and that one word, that one name "God" brought forth from my soul all of what I had been feeling.
I could no longer wear the facade. That was my grandmother, a woman who was nothing short of mythological to me, lying in that box, and I had to see to it that she was put in the ground properly--me, because I was called by God to do that sort of thing.
I can't honestly tell you what made me sob the way I did. I'm sure it was a mixture of emotions: sadness at the loss of such a wonderful woman, anger that she was robbed of so much of her dignity by those she loved, confusion at how apples can fall so far from their tree. Whatever it was, it was all triggered by that one word, uttered in the dark, personal silence of prayer, "God."
In that moment, that name conjured up everything that had been glossed over as "fine," and God, in that personal, dark silence comforted me, even though I was unsure as to why I needed comfort, and it gave me the freedom to mourn.
CPT
We hadn't been home long. Our move back across the Mississippi River was a long haul, but we were here, back where there were hills, pork barbecue, and boiled peanuts. We hadn't even unpacked the boxes in our temporary rent house. I was getting used to the routine (or lack thereof) of being the "new guy" when my phone rang.
I knew who it was and what they were going to say: "She's getting worse. It won't be much longer now. Can you do the funeral?" What could I say but "Yes"? Of course, at the time there was no real need to plan it, no real need to get all worked up. It could be weeks, months, maybe a year before I'd need to pack the dark suit, Bible, and funeral service and head south. But it wasn't.
A few days later the final call came--I knew it would. I couldn't put off reality any longer. So I packed the suit, the Bible, the plans, got folks to cover for me on Sunday, and I headed home (would it ever be home again?).
I sat with my family, listened to a few stories, and went over how things would go the day of the service; I was fine, nothing to worry about. The visitation was on a Sunday, so my wife and I went to church that morning, out to lunch, and then to the funeral home to meet my family. And there she was. Honestly, I didn't recognize her: her glasses were way too clean, and she was wearing makeup. Again, I was fine, nothing to worry about. I watched family and friends I hadn't seen in years (some I had never seen at all) come in and out, talk to my dad, my aunts and uncles, and then leave. I saw them cry, heard their stories, and witnessed their genuine admiration for a woman that meant something in their lives. And I was still fine.
The morning of the service came; it was time to leave the "grandson" clothes folded neatly in my suitcase and put on the dark suit of a minister. I arrived early, with the family for the service, waited for about an hour with them in the room with casket, and then the funeral director came into the room, shut the doors, and told us how the service would go. Still, I was fine.
Then, the funeral director turned to me and said, "I'm going to ask the minister to pray before we go out into the chapel." And with a voice I've heard countless times coming from my own mouth on Sunday morning, I said, "Let us pray."
But only one other word came out after that, "God..."
That was it. That one syllable floated in the air around me for what seemed like an eternity, all the while I felt as if my body would fall to the floor in sobbing convulsions. For it was there, in that moment, that I realized I wasn't fine. It was there, in that moment, with my head bowed and my eyes closed, that I couldn't escape it anymore, and that one word, that one name "God" brought forth from my soul all of what I had been feeling.
I could no longer wear the facade. That was my grandmother, a woman who was nothing short of mythological to me, lying in that box, and I had to see to it that she was put in the ground properly--me, because I was called by God to do that sort of thing.
I can't honestly tell you what made me sob the way I did. I'm sure it was a mixture of emotions: sadness at the loss of such a wonderful woman, anger that she was robbed of so much of her dignity by those she loved, confusion at how apples can fall so far from their tree. Whatever it was, it was all triggered by that one word, uttered in the dark, personal silence of prayer, "God."
In that moment, that name conjured up everything that had been glossed over as "fine," and God, in that personal, dark silence comforted me, even though I was unsure as to why I needed comfort, and it gave me the freedom to mourn.
CPT
Wow man, I felt that one.
ReplyDeleteI've been thinking about what I'll do if and when I'm asked to do the job at one of my loved one's funerals. This was good. Thanks.
ReplyDelete