This is not what I was going to write about this week, but
sometimes life happens... and sometimes death happens... and sometimes plans
change... and sometimes we change...
One of my extended family members passed away earlier this
week after a long battle with cancer. I
do not often have the opportunity to gather with relatives. Although the occasion was somber and the
drive was long, Phil and I decided to attend the funeral.
I have now been to exactly two Catholic funerals in my life. The first one was a little over 18 years ago,
when my Nana died. Because I did not
understand anything about Catholic traditions or sacraments, it was terrifying. And when I write that, please do not take it
lightly. It was not a simple matter of
feeling weird, because everything was unfamiliar. I was really scared. Mostly, I have impressions about this day as
opposed to solid memories, but there are things I do remember which include
desperately wanting to kneel and pray by the casket but feeling ashamed to do
so, since I had been taught it was evil to pray for the dead and having a near
panic attack at the end of the funeral, because I had no idea what incense was
or what the priest was doing with it.
My experience, this time around, was very different. This was the most beautiful funeral I have
ever attended. When we were leaving, I
told Phil, "If I die before you, that's the kind of funeral I want,"
and I meant it.
We arrived early, which afforded me the opportunity to greet
my precious great aunt Tina in a very quiet and near empty sanctuary. She was mourning the loss of her daughter,
with a few silent tears on her face. I
had not seen her in many years. I love
her, and I have to be honest, hugging her is a little bit like having a piece
of Nana back.
Since we came into the sanctuary at the wrong entrance (you
know it's not really my story if
there aren't some anomalies, and just wait... there are some...), we exited
through the other doors in order to sign the guest book and connect to other
family members, including my parents.
Upon re-entering the sanctuary, I noticed a bowl of water
and the person ahead of me dipped her fingers in it before making the sign of
the cross. There were too many people
coming in behind me for me to take the necessary time to consider what I should
do, so I just went in and sat down, but as I did so, I turned to Phil and said,
"I think we just missed our opportunity to touch the holy
water." I know, I know, this
confusion and compulsion probably sounds crazy to anyone who's spent his or her
whole life with things like holy water available to them every time they enter
a church, but it's very new to me. The
sense of loss was so profound that I briefly considered exiting and entering
for a third time, but I do have some semblance of normalcy left, so I just
stayed put.
And I began to soak in the imagery...
Did you know that you can tell the entire story of Jesus'
life, ministry, death, and resurrection on walls and in stained glass
windows? Why did we move away from
this? Why have we moved away from the
telling of stories, altogether? This
funeral told a story. It told the story
of a life well lived, but it also told the larger continuing story of God. But then the priest used some words that were
very powerful in light of death.
"She is lost to all of us."
This caused me to consider the role that each life plays in this
story. Everyone is important,
particularly if we believe in humanity working in partnership with God. Because of this, death is a profound
loss. And yet...
There was something really amazing about the way in which
corporate prayer brought things... and people... together in these moments. To pray for the dead is, in many ways, to
commit them into Jesus' hands. In
contrast to my limited Catholic funeral experiences, I have been to a lot of
Protestant ones. There I have
experienced weeping, wailing, falling on your face kind of grief. I am not, in any way, going to tell people
how they should or should not grieve... how they need to grieve... what is
appropriate... But these people, this
week. They embodied I Thessalonians
4:13. They grieved as people who have
hope.
I have to admit that although I tried to participate as
fully as possible in this experience, there were some quirks. For example, the truth is I just didn't know
all of the right words to say. There
might have been some ad-libbing and delayed repeating going on, but I did my
best. I took as many cues as I could
from my Aunt Mary, and it might have been slightly encouraging when she
literally flashed a peace sign at the passing of the peace. I don't know if she recognized how hard I was
trying to get it all "right", but that took some of the pressure off.
Of significant importance to me was the Eucharist. The last time I was at a Catholic service (a
wedding), it was announced that Protestants could not participate in the
Eucharist, so I was sort of expecting that again, but nothing was ever
said. My mom (as Protestant as it gets)
was getting more and more nervous by the second as the Eucharist was
approaching, and this reminded me of another childhood memory...
I must have been about eight years old the year Nana managed
to get the entire family to mass on Christmas Eve. I remember it was fun, which is sort of
ironic. Anyway, when the time for the
Eucharist was approaching, I wanted to fall in line with the rest of my
Catholic family to participate. I stood
up, but my dad turned to me and told me no, and my mom quickly pulled me back
to where she was... where we sat watching as everyone else partook of the
sacrament. I remember feeling very
alone, left out, unworthy of sharing in this very important moment. Having just seen the latest Pixar release, Inside Out, I think you might even call
this particular instance a "core memory"...
So, when the priest gave no indication that Protestants were
to be excluded from this celebration
of the Eucharist, I leaned over my mom, to my dad, and asked, "Can we take
communion here even though we're not Catholic?" And my stomach was in knots as I waited for
him to say no again, except he didn't.
Instead, he said, "I don't see why not," and as I literally
hurdled my parents, he added in a whisper, "Just don't drink too much
wine." Mercifully, I managed to
only smile, because it could have been a laugh out loud moment. (As a side note, no wine was offered, only
bread).
As we neared the end, the priest actually used the words,
"the last paragraph," which, of course, brings us back to the
narrative. These words cause me to
consider the paragraphs of my own life.
I'd like more of them to be about grace.
We only get so many, you know.
And then it was time for the incense. Did you know that incense is used to signify
purification and sanctification? Not
frightening this time around, friends...
While you're still listening, I have one confession. After a meal with my family, as Phil and I
were getting ready to leave, it occurred to me that we were the only ones near
the sanctuary, and we had timed it just right so there was another opportunity
at the holy water. Every Catholic friend
and family member I have must be laughing at me, right now, but I just had to
touch it. Please don't misunderstand,
though. It's more than curiosity. I'm learning.
L.
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