On a warm afternoon this past fall, many of my family members gathered in a room in a funeral home in my hometown. We were there to grieve over the loss of my uncle. As the funeral time neared, those who wished made one last visit to the casket. As this ritual progressed, some said a few final words to my uncle, some fought back tears, some stoically passed by without a word or a tear, some stood in the shadows as if to say, without saying anything, they were at a loss to know what to do or say at a time such as this. A prayer was offered at some point during these moments, a petition to the God who gives and takes away, today taking away an uncle, yet, giving us time together as family. After we made this last trek, we stepped out of the room into a hallway where we waited for the processional into the chapel. As we crowded into the hallway, the doors behind us closed and when they were closed shut, a feeling snuck down the hallway that you just knew the casket behind that door was also being shut on my uncle, shut never to be opened again.
In the crowded hallway, we jockeyed for a place to sit or stand while the funeral directors began corralling pallbearers and family for the beginning of the funeral. As I stood beside my parents I noticed a young woman near us bawling her eyes out and loudly crying, yet at the same time wrestling with her cell phone. I imagined she was texting someone in the midst of everything going on, although I shuddered to think that someone so consumed with sorrow could care enough at that very instant to let someone somewhere know the funeral has almost started or that a ringtone couldn’t wait for another download time or that whatever was going on in that phone could not wait a few minutes.
Soon, we were filing into the chapel. I thought to myself as we entered how our society seems to loathe ceremony. It was nice though to note how some people still honor certain ceremony as those who came to the funeral stood as our family marched in and remained standing while my uncle was rolled into the chapel. Sad though to think, we think so little of offering respect to anyone while they are alive that this brief moment of respect at a funeral can make such an impression. I tried not to even think about how maybe some were just standing because everyone else was standing or that some just stood because all they know is that is what is done at this part of a funeral.
I sat at the end of a pew with my Mom and Dad to my right and on the right side of the chapel. We were a few pews from the front. I had earlier met one of the ministers chosen for the funeral. My mother seemed sure I knew him but I could not remember him. I had asked him earlier if he was the father of an old classmate of mine and he said no and he then mentioned his son’s name. I recognized his son as someone a year or so older than me. I remembered his son as a not-so-happy young man years ago. This gentleman then informed me his son would also be handling part of the service later. While I have been away from my hometown for nearly two decades I still know the families and names from my childhood because that’s just the way things are there, you knew who was who and how everyone was connected. It dawned on me that if his son was who I was thinking he was then I could not imagine the young man I recall being the kind of man who would be a minister as he became older. Later while reflecting on the day, this made me realize one of life’s truisms…our memories often stand still while life moves on and changes us and the people and things around us. This leaves us stuck in the past so we often fail to catch up with the way things have become, the way things really are now.
The older gentleman spoke some words. He talked how he was in retirement but had promised my family he would speak at my uncle’s funeral. He was near my uncle’s age and talked some about knowing my uncle most of his life. He relayed some information about my uncle’s time in the service and later when he returned from World War II. After a time, he went to sit down and gave way for his son. As his son stood, my Mom realizing the funeral wasn’t over yet and getting a bit restless, said under her breath, ‘oh, there’s another one’. To me, she said this loud enough that I thought everyone in the chapel heard this although I’m sure few if any really did hear this. The older man’s son stood at the podium and I recognized him as who I thought he was despite the age we both had accumulated. He provided words of comfort as well and even talked about how he had done some things in his own life he wasn’t proud of doing and related that to the uneven life my uncle had lived.
Of course, one can’t help but think about mortality at such a time. What lies ahead after death? I have my own ideas. I spent some time thinking about those things for a moment or two, quietly taking inventory on the things that trip me up and the things that lift me up from time to time. Death and funerals have that way of reminding one how human we are despite any bravado we may chase after life day to day.
As we sat there, words of comfort ringing in our ears, tears flowing, some family members rose to sing a couple of songs. Raw, powerful voices mingled with the notes from a piano offering words that called for a better day, a day when the pain from the present world ceased. Without warning, during one of the songs, one of my cousins sitting directly behind me let out a scream of overwhelming grief. I, despite being quiet and reserved, probably jumped a bit as it seemed she had screamed directly in my ear. I look back and chuckle some at this but only with the understanding that we celebrate and grieve in different ways, some cannot hold their feelings in, while others can, neither is necessarily right or wrong, just different.
We sat there as a family, gathered together only for a funeral, just like the last time we had all gathered together, at some other family funeral. I looked up a few pews to my cousins, the children of my deceased uncle. They looked as if a speeding train had smashed their lives. I couldn’t help but wonder what lay ahead for them, knowing how they haven’t always gotten along with one another, wondering how this loss would cloud their lives in the time ahead. I glanced around at other family members. I spotted one relative who had chosen to come to this occasion in his San Francisco 49er jacket, liberated no doubt from the years of nagging his wife had given him over the clothes he wore everywhere. Some family members were crying uncontrollably. Others held up, strong for those who needed a sturdy shoulder to lean against. Behind the strong eyes I wondered how deep the hurt ran, how fresh was the wound. There we were, the smell of hairspray on big hair collided with cologne and perfume and cigarettes and a touch of body odor as the service ended.
We are who we are…messed-up, mixed-up, emotional, strong, silent, educated, street-smart, hopeless, confident, fashion plates in polyester, cotton, denim, orange jumpsuits provided by the county and even in the finest in sports team apparel. At the end of the day, we are who we are and at this moment, we stand together at the end of the road waiting to take one of our own to his final resting place.
To be continued…
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