To Be Together

I recently officiated at a funeral for a gentleman I didn't know. It happens from time to time: a person dies devoid of church connections and the family, in need of ceremonial leadership, falls upon the kindness of a stranger. One of these days people will realize, in the looming presence of institutional absence, that anyone with a willingness to stand before a crowd and traffic-cop an order of service can emcee a funeral. In the meantime, the funeral home calls someone like me. I choose to believe that I bring a few cards to the table beyond glibness, but that's for others to judge.  The point is that the occasion doesn’t really need me - except when it does.  

In this case, the mourners gathered, I led us through the memories, rehearsed the attributes and commendations, remembered the affirmations, and reasserted the comforting commendations to the extent possible for the spiritually disconnected, and pronounced the benediction.

Afterwards there were compliments amidst the sandwiches and chips, and gratitudes. I was more than adequately appreciated. I said my goodbyes, reiterated my sympathies, and went on my way. Some days later, I received in the mail a handwritten thank-you expressing the family's appreciation for the service, but more effusively for the opportunity I had afforded them, in the days preceding the service, to sit down together and remember and talk about their loved one. It was, the note elaborated, the first time they had been able to do so since the death.

I was certainly grateful for the note. I had valued the interactions with the family and, as usually happens on such occasions, left lamenting that I had never been privileged to know the deceased.

And yet there was a poignant, melancholic element to the note.

Some years ago, we hosted a clergy renewal program here at our farmstead through which ministers would spend a day each month in work, private retreat, and guided reflection around assigned readings and the experiences with the land. Every month, during the personal retreat time, one or more of the participants returned to their car and took a nap. I had no complaint. Participants were encouraged to use that time however it might be useful and renewing. Some walked the trails, some walked the labyrinth, some sat and watched the chickens while others relaxed in the shade of a tree and journaled or read.

While others took a nap in their car.

As I say, I didn't disapprove. But I did feel sad that someone needed to pay someone a registration fee for the privilege of closing one's eyes and catching up on neglected zzz's.

Or in the more present case, needing an officiant's convening to create the time to sit down together to remember, through laughter and tears, the loved one who has just died. Why is it that we can't take a nap on our own time? How did life become too busy to grieve?

I'm happy to be the impetus - for a nap or a family moment to remember and give thanks and lament. It just makes me sad that we need that much external permission or help or insistence. Sad, I suppose, but grateful that at least it can happen then.

Is it the Protestant work ethic or the “keep a stiff upper lip” ethos, or are we simply that out of touch with ourselves?  Yes, I know there are those who push the limits of self-care - who spend so much time and invest so much energy taking care of themselves that they cease to be any use to themselves or others. But surely they are the exception.

One of these days perhaps we can grow self-aware enough to take care of ourselves - to sleep when we need to sleep; grieve when we need to grieve; share stories when we need to reminisce, and both laugh and cry without apology.

With or without some stranger’s initiative or permission.

One of these days.

In the meantime, give me a call. I'm happy to tell you to take a nap or to tearfully slobber your way through a story you will regret not sharing, or to simply hold your family member's hand.

We are, after all, in this life together.  And you can thank me later.