i attended the funeral of a man from my church. he was not a relative or a best friend, but he was someone that i knew i’d regret not saying goodbye to. because his was a face i’d grown up knowing in my church. i knew that since he’d become ill there was a piece missing from each church sunday, a familiar feeling that had brought me comfort, that i was unaware of until it was gone. so i came to say goodbye.
he was old and had died of congestive heart failure. there was no surprise, no shock, no feeling that he had “gone before his time.” in fact there seemed to be a collective sense of resolve in the sanctuary; that he had died, that soon some of the folks that had come would die, and that eventually, hopefully years from now, we younger people in attendance would die, too.
there was no loud wailing, no standing up and asking why, no fighting what had happened. his wife sat stoic in the front pew, surrounded by family. children and grandchildren and great grandchildren had come. they all had a look of blank but proud solidarity that, if asked about, they could probably not explain. his friends sat across the aisle but also in the front row, evidence that they were of equal importance in this man’s life.
i sat next to ashley, a dear friend. we had visited this man in the hospital during the last hours of his life. when we’d found out that he was close to dying we slipped from our lives and into the hospital at 11 o’clock at night. he was alone in his room, breathing heavily, a giant bottle of morphine dripping into his right arm. we each took a side of the bed, ashley and i, and on her cue i grabbed his left hand. i noticed right away that his wedding band had been moved to his middle finger, his ring finger now too thin to hold it in place. his hands were liver spots and veins and bone, but still very warm. and in the next two hours ashley and i talked, comforting each other, comforting him, he comforting us. ashley scribbled a note (to whom?) explaining that we’d been there, that we’d stayed for a while and visited, talked, and held his hands. that we loved him.
the funeral was simple, sweet. there were sprays of flowers, forcefully bright and happy adorning the communion table, resting on his casket. the organ played a slow dirge of music and we stood to watch the family walk in. i made a mental note to myself that i would stand or sit with my arms at my side, rather than crossed in front of me, so that i could fully absorb this next hour or so. and immediately i could feel everything seeping in; the music, the old familiar hymns that we didn’t need books for, the bible verses, the solo, the words of friends that new him well. and with no where else to go my sadness came out in my tears, first slowly, then quickly, then faster still.
i know that funerals are not for the person who has died. i know that they do not care if the casket is cushioned, or if the bouquet that sits on top of it is centered. they do not care if a loud siren sounds outside while someone is speaking about them. they do not care about deviled eggs and punch afterwards. they do not care if it is sunny or raining when they are lowered into the ground. this body, this flesh that remains, these flowers and this ceremony, they are for our selfish need for a goodbye.
i suppose a person that takes the time to design their own funeral is really designing their perfect way of saying goodbye to the people they love. they are imagining how they would handle the loss of a friend or family member. how they could possibly take it all in.
these days i am a shield, blocking out so many things, so i am thankful that i was there, arms lowered, taking it in. i am glad that i said goodbye.
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