WE DON'T DO THIS WELL

 

The first person I knew who died was my Gram.  I was nine years old.  It was June, warm, sunny, school was out, and summer was about to begin.  At a house that was normally crackling with energy, activity and noise, now there was a pervasive quiet.  I wore a purple dress, white tights and black shoes to the funeral home. I stayed in the back, as far away from the front as possible. My dad stayed patiently beside me. I leaned into him. After some time, dad said to me, “OK, you need to go up front now and say goodbye.”  I absolutely did not.  Eyes focused downward, I shook my head.  “Come on, you need to go now.”  I shook my head more defiantly and murmured, “no, I don’t want to.” More time went by.  Dad took my hand and started to walk.  I tried to dig my black dress shoes covered feet into the fine carpet, it didn’t stick. Being half pulled, I got to the front near the casket. Mum came beside me, I looked and saw my Gram lying there, her arms folded with her hands one on top of another, her eyes and mouth closed. 

I turned and wrapped my arms around my mother’s waist. She rubbed my back and left her hand there. I was in no hurry to go anywhere else.

 

I grew up near a cemetery.  On the way to the park, we walked through the cemetery. As a youth, a group of us would ride our bikes and go-carts on the paved roads that circled and crisscrossed the gravestones. 

 

As ordained clergy, I’ve spent significant time in the homes of grieving families, at funeral homes and at gravesides. 

 

Having been at this for a while, I would rather officiate a funeral than a wedding.

How’s that for a Valentine’s Day post……. 

 

Yet today is also Ash Wednesday, the beginning of the season of Lent. On this day, we mark our foreheads with ashes to affirm our mortality.

 

We don’t do this well.

 

We really need to do this better.