I'm sitting here in the First
Baptist Church for the fourth time in a 2-3 week period. I do not attend church
here. But like my own church, I've now memorized the ceiling. It's far more symmetrical than ours. The beams are spaced 20' apart and filled with 6"
lap boards (38 between each 12" beam). Except the very rear section is
only 15'. So the sanctuary is 135' deep, I think. It may be 130' - I was analyzing
the very front section to see if it too was less than 20' and people started
staring at me, like I'm weird or something. Anyway, the sanctuary is beautiful.
And symmetrical. Soul soothing.
I've attended four funerals in this
span of time, three of which were here. Two of the four I felt I knew the
people pretty well; two of the four not as well, but I knew them. I do not
think I cried at the two funerals of the people I knew better; I cried at both
funerals where I knew them casually. Emotions are strange things sometimes.
When I was younger I used to pride
myself on not attending funerals ever - I puffed up my chest and said funerals
are just too sad, and I wanted to remember them alive, not dead. I was proud of
my stance. Now, I liken it to people who don't go to church because it's full
of hypocrites. I was a selfish sort sighted idiot. Now, I regret some funerals
I failed to attend - my great grandmother's especially.
***Break***
***Funeral***
***Put the Phone Down***
***Grocery Shopping***
***Drive Home***
At some point I came to the
realization that funerals are not about me. It is not about me. Nor is it
really about the person who passed. This came as a huge sweeping revelation to
me sometime in my late twenties. Funerals are for the people who WERE close to
the person who passed. They need to see a sea of faces, some familiar and some
not - they need to know that this person they are grieving - the hole left in
their soul - had an impact. They mattered. They were loved. It is an
outpouring of support, often for people you do not even know. And it trumps
pretty much everything else in life in that moment – there is nowhere more
important or sacred to be.
I started making funerals a
priority. I'm not trying to be pretentious or self-righteous or holy - I think
in some ways I'm trying to atone for the ones I missed.
That being said, I really
deliberated about attending today. I deliberated about if I belonged there.
See, last Sunday I was across the street from their home at a referral who came
from them. I had dropped in the week before to speak my condolences to the
family, specifically the widow wife Dianne who was left behind. I knew the
referral had come from them, before the tragedy occurred that cost her husband
Murray’s life. Sunday I was meeting the referral's insurance agent. It was the day
after the funeral. I debated about dropping in, but my truck is bright red and
smeared with my company logo - you cannot miss it even if you tried. It seemed
wrong to just drive off without saying anything.
I got confused. I was off balance. I
was not myself. I felt like an intruder once we got in there. I remember now that I
told her that I loved the flag ceremony. See, Murray was a Marine. I had never
seen a flag presentation in person and it was …. I have no words. I was telling
her I was sitting in the very back row and so I could not really see, but I saw
one Marine’s little white hat if I looked just right. During the ceremony I
cried – I cried for her and I cried for them, but I also cried because I was
awed by the idea that this man had served his country selflessly and years and
years later these men arrived who did not ever even meet him, and they honored
him because they came from the same tradition. I’m not sure I’m putting the
right words to this – but I compared it to being a Girl Scout. No Girl Scout is
going to come to my funeral and present a patch to my family. No random student
from Iowa State University Marching Band. But the Marines do. My soul ached to
be a part of something with that rich of a tradition and history. I was proud
of this Marine – of all Marines.
Overall though, I left her house
feeling like I should not have stopped. I was filled with shame. I can’t
explain it all, nor do I want to even if I could, but that’s how I felt. I
could not shake the feeling – it hung over me like a storm cloud on an August
day, and the feeling would not go away.
In our roofing conference that
immediately followed during one of the sessions they asked us to list three
people that we could take actions this week to protect – and I listed Dianne. I
vowed I was going to write her a letter, just to tell her that no, I did not
know her well, but that yes, I authentically cared. And then on Wednesday as we
were leaving the conference, I was speaking with the referral across the street,
and he told me that Dianne was gone. It knocked the wind out of me.
There was no letter to write. There
were no words to say.
A friend told me this morning that
the day after her mom’s funeral she didn’t want any visitors. She also gently
wondered out loud why we always remember our short comings when it comes to
death – how we failed that person. What we could have done different or better.
If we could have stopped it. If we maybe even caused it. And that would not be
what they would want. It’s a disservice to them.
I decided to go. I went. Walking in
I was telling my parents on the phone about the Marine presentation and my dad
told me that during high school he used to play “Taps” at such presentations. I
never knew that about my dad. I laughed and told him the Marines don’t do Taps –
the Marines do silence, except one little baby that was babbling away during
the whole thing.
Dianne was in the air force for 20
years. I got goose bumps as I realized there was going to be another flag
presentation. My second ever. Before the presentation their pastor, Pastor
Brad, asked that everyone remain seated during the presentation and not rise
until the first notes in “Taps.” It was then the conversation in the kitchen
flooded over me – how I could not see. In this presentation I got to see everything
- it was like the curtain was drawn back, just for me. It was in that moment
that I knew I was supposed to be there.
I was supposed to be there. And I am not to feel ashamed.
The front portion must only be 15'. It must be, because if it were not, it would not be symmetrical. So it's 130' deep. I'm sticking to it.
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