Monday, January 28, 2008

In a Days Work

I answered the phone on a Monday morning. It was a young one - 20 years old. I hate those. Fell asleep at the wheel at 2 a.m. on the way home and hit a truck head on. “Was he drunk?” I asked.

“Not sure,” replied the pastor who would preside over the service. It really didn’t matter how it happened, only that it had. A young life cut short meant an even tougher assignment than usual for both of us.

I didn’t ask to be the funeral hostess for the community church that my family and I attend. Most would not aspire to such a position. I was a stay-at-home mom and wasn’t planning to juggle an outside job, but I needed to find a way to come up with some extra money to take my husband on a surprise Mexican cruise for his 40th birthday the following Spring. So, on a Sunday morning when one of the church secretaries asked if I’d be interested, I accepted, reassuring myself that it would just be a temporary assignment. Little did I know that my heart would come to permanently wrap itself tightly around each story - each life - in one way or another. I keep every program, read every poem printed, and sign each guest book in my best cursive.

They usually don’t know me, but I want them to know I was there.

On this particular day, I arrived earlier than usual and set about my tasks, purposely avoiding the front of the church until absolutely necessary. It was the first time I had to perform my duties with an open casket nearby and it made me surprisingly uneasy. Other than the sporadic floral arrangement being delivered, I was alone in the vast room and a virtual stranger to death. In my 39 years, the closest thing to me that I’d ever lost was my beautiful Snowshoe Siamese cat Lewis, six months ago. When I was seven, my grandfather died. I didn’t know him well but I do remember parts of his funeral. My mother and aunts fought over whether or not the casket would remain open or be closed. My mom begged them to allow her to remember him as he was in life. It was to be shut. But part of me was disappointed because I was curious to know what death looked like. I remember sitting in the church pew with my cousins, trying to force a tear down my cheek in order to better fit in with the sorrow around me. When it finally came, I tilted my head back slightly and let it sit there, hoping someone would see the gleam of moisture. Testimony to the fact that I cared, or at least that I wanted to.

I made my way upstairs to the control room to adjust the lighting. The set of windows to the North allow for some natural light and a nice view of the foothills. Below them is a big, wooden cross – made of oak, I think. It’s my favorite thing about the sanctuary and when I shine the lights on it just so, it creates a beautiful effect for those who choose to be comforted by it. Once back downstairs, I set the thermostat - more on the cool side - but comfortable, and then gingerly made my way forward to rearrange the many flowers that had already arrived. Making sure there’s a balance of color and scale on either side of the casket is important. At a time such as this, it’s unlikely anyone notices, but I like to pay attention to the details anyway.

I wanted to walk past him quickly but then found myself stopping to pay respect to this young man in dark sunglasses lying so still. He was wearing a blue suit and tie that I recognized from his prom picture in one of the lovingly crafted collages displayed in the foyer. I was surprised at how good he looked, given the violent way in which his life ended. My eyes wandered over the beautifully polished mahogany casket, and then paused to take in the cheesy, tropical beach scene on the lining of the lid. He was an avid surfer, so I got it, but I found myself wondering if his loved ones wanted to ensure that he had something comforting to look at, in the event he somehow woke up...

A woman walking slowly towards me suddenly interrupted these morbid thoughts. Our eyes locked for a moment, and I knew this was his mother. I’d seen her among the many pictures out front. She was young and more beautiful in person but, this day, her enormous loss and palpable sorrow robbed her of any luster.

Questioning her motives for a casket embellishment was instantly irrelevant.

I moved to shake her hand and introduce myself, gently letting her know, as was customary, that I was “here should she need anything at all.” Of course she needed something. And we both knew that it was something that neither I, nor anyone else on earth, could give.

As she turned to gaze upon her son, I became invisible. Stepping away I watched through lowered eyes, as she made sure his tie was straight before bending down to kiss him softly on the forehead. She stayed close as she slowly brushed his dark, wavy hair and then his cheek, with the tips of her fingers before turning to her husband who had come to stand beside her. Suddenly the brevity of the moment took her of strength and she collapsed sobbing into his chest. He led her to the first row of chairs, sat her down and held her tightly as she allowed grief to overcome her.

Through no effort of my own, my tears began to fall and I offered up a prayer that she would somehow be comforted today - and then, selfishly, said one for myself. That I would never know what it felt like to kiss the cold forehead of my son that once was so warm. How often had she checked for a fever that way when he was little, as I have with my own boys? How helpless she must have felt, being unable to make it all better this time.

After the church was filled to overflowing, I shut the doors and the service began. I sat in the back and listened to some wonderful memories shared among those who knew him best. There were stories and testimonies from various family members, his high school track coaches, and from buddies who envied his prowess with numerous female admirers. There was laughter and healing in the room as his life, although seemingly cut short, was celebrated. And I saw his mother smiling weakly through her tears – comforted - as she quietly took all of the love into her broken heart.

I looked up gratefully at the cross.

When the service was over, I signed the guest book and handed it, along with the photos and a basket full of sympathy cards, to his parents before they left to follow the hearse and bury their beloved son. “Thank you for everything,” she said to me. “Of course.” I replied hugging her tightly, “It was a beautiful service. He was so very loved.” I hoped she would feel how much I hurt for her...

After turning everything off and locked the doors, I began the short walk home. There, my own family would be waiting. I believe there was a reason I was asked to be the funeral hostess for our church. And it wasn’t so I could cruise to Mexico with my husband. I knelt down to meet my two boys who ran down the driveway to greet me, the same ones I had taken for granted three hours earlier, and hugged each of them a whole lot longer and tighter than they were used to. Then I let them go. As, eventually all mothers must. I paused to thank God for giving me another day with them…

And for a job He knew I’d need.

1 comment:

Russ Parker said...

Ruth, you have a gift! Thanks for sharing!
-Russ