Learning from Funerals

There are a lot of benefits to growing up in a family with few young children and a lot of much older relatives. I learned about making butter from the milk from the cow in the backyard of one aunt and uncle's house. Unlike Mama's electric one at home, I had sewn simple things on my aunt's treadle sewing machine. I did better with the treadle; I could go slower and keep my line of stitches straighter. I would run around under the pecan tree as Daddy and my brother threw a baseball through the branches to knock down the nuts. It was my job to pick them up. Most of the relatives had huge yards with plenty of room to run around, and one uncle had a nice rocking chair next to the oil stove where he would rock a little girl to sleep with a story.

Some might not call it a benefit, but another thing I learned was about death and funerals. Having a lot of much older relatives meant that at least once or twice a year, we would have a death in the family somewhere and a funeral to attend. It was the closest thing to a family reunion that our family ever had. I was usually the youngest person there, although older cousins came with their families. I didn't think much about death; it was more a party with many people I often saw and some very rarely in one place.

I knew what death was; I was taught that when someone died, they went to Heaven, where we would see them one day when our own turn to die came. Those big shiny boxes at the funeral had the body of someone I knew, liked, or loved. Sometimes that box would be open, revealing someone that looked vaguely familiar but not like the person I knew. I wanted them to look more natural, less like wax figures with makeup, Sunday dresses, or suits I'd never seen them wear.

I sometimes wonder why parents don't take their children to funerals. I know the prevailing thing is that "Oh, they're too young to be exposed to something like that," but are we really protecting them from something unpleasant or from a reality that they need to know about first-hand, not just from what they see on television, movies, comic books, or video games. Granted, death can be traumatic, and children do witness traumatic deaths up close and personally. It can scar a child for life and is far different than seeing an elderly relative laid out neatly.

 

Children are exposed to death and violence every day indirectly. Every time a favorite cartoon character is squashed, shot, falls over a cliff, or has a car accident, it seems like death. Still, the character usually pops up a few seconds later. What appeared to be dead really wasn't. Children and teens playing video games can "kill" other characters or be killed themselves. Yet both can usually be revived by restarting the episode or using a particular spell. On television programs, they see characters killed in any number of ways. Then, one day, the actor will show up again as someone else somewhere else, thus making the point that death on one show does not mean the person they see being shot or some other lethal action is really dead. It's so common that most kids don't see it as real. They can stage the same imaginary scenario with a real gun, shoot someone, the someone will get up, and both will laugh hysterically. But what happens when the gunshot is fatal? 

 

Watching the Queen's funeral this week, I saw Prince George and Princess Charlotte. I remember being their age when I went to the many funerals that come from having elder relatives. Many said that the young royals were too young to be at such an event, but I have to disagree. They had as much right to say goodbye to their beloved grannie as any adult in attendance. They heard the words of the scriptures offering hope and comfort, some of the hymns they undoubtedly heard in church on Sundays, and the presence of nurturing and loving family members around them. They heard people talking about their grannie using words they knew and had witnessed during her time with them. They also gained memories of her and what made her so very special. They will take those things with them as they grow and have their own families. They also learned that death was not forever. Undoubtedly, there will be reunion in Heaven. 

 

That is my belief and my hope. It's what I learned from attending lots of funerals when I was much younger. Without that belief and hope, fostered by loving and supportive people surrounding me in confusing times, I might not have acquired that perspective. Still, it's what comforts me with every passing. The thoughts of seeing my loved ones again keep me going. Thanks to those who taught me that death is nothing to be feared; it's part of my faith. I believe God is loving and protective and that Jesus's words about many mansions are to be believed.

Originally published on Episcopal Café as part of Episcopal Journal, Saturday, Sept. 24, 2022.

Being Humble

 

Sundays at our house when I was a child were always high points of the week. Like most Southern Baptists who attended our church, the whole family would attend (unless something pressing occurred – like having to go to their in-laws instead). Mama would have cooked a ham or fried some chicken, and we’d have all the appropriate side dishes. We’d use the “good” china and silverware, and the white linen tablecloth would be crisp and spotless. If the bachelor preacher had no other invitation, he would join us for dinner. He lived in our garage apartment and had his knees under our table so often he was like a family member. Occasionally, we’d invite someone or a couple from church, whether we knew them or not. That was southern hospitality, as we saw it.

Everybody had a place at the table; Daddy sat at one end, Mama at the other. My place was next to Mama so she could keep me on the straight and narrow. The preacher sat next to Daddy, and relatives and friends filled in the rest of the seating. We didn’t have a grand dining room or a large table, but there was always room for another place. 

Jesus was like our preacher. He’d been invited to dinner at the home of a leader of the Pharisees after Sabbath service at the synagogue. Seating at dinner had a very particular order. Those of higher status or whom the host wanted to talk to during dinner were at the top end of the table. The lower end was for those not in favor or who were of lower status. To take a place to which one wasn’t meant to have was a shameful act and one which fellow diners would notice. It was better to wait and be shown to a seat, whether at the top of the table, the middle, or the bottom, was far better and showed better manners. 

The point of the parable was, however, a lesson on humility. We could probably deliver a sermon on assuming positions to which others were not entitled every time someone breaks into the checkout line at the grocery store, cuts someone else off in traffic, or presumes to speak for others without in fact representing them with their consent. Maybe such sermons are needed, but unless it consumes 140 characters or less, they may be ignored, especially by those who most need to hear them. 

Look for other humble people in the Bible. It’s full of them. Perhaps that’s why Jesus used them so often as illustrations in his parables and stories. Which stories can you remember offhand? The woman with the two coppers to give to the synagogue? The woman with the hemorrhage? The blind, lame, leprous, and mentally ill who asked for help without real hope that Jesus would be more merciful to them than other people had been? The children who Jesus invited to come to him instead of being shooed away as nuisances? The early Christians who practiced the servant ministries that cared for the less fortunate? There are many more.

This week what would happen if we didn’t honk at the person who cut us off in traffic? What would it be like to give up a place in line to someone who might really need it? What if we gave a cup of hot coffee to a person begging on the street corner? Could we give up a seat on the bus, train, or subway to an elder, or give a ride to a person who needs to get to the doctor or the store? There are so many ways of being humble and helpful, making it another step on the road to creating God’s kingdom on earth. 

Let’s try a few. 

God bless. 

Farewell to a Role Model

 

I've been working on a project for a friend, typing umpteen pages of a training program for an organization she belongs to. It's interesting for the most part, although a few things make me itch. Still, I can change a few things, so I guess that's like the calamine lotion on the itch.

I was typing "In Flanders Field," a poem written after WWI commemorating a significant battle in which over a million soldiers went missing, were injured, or died. Scarlet poppy seeds pushed through the earth that had been disturbed by the combat, and the red flowers came to symbolize the blood of those who struggled there. I had just started typing the poem's first few lines when my best friend texted me that the Queen had died at Balmoral, Scotland. I had seen a news clip of her greeting the new Prime Minister, the 15^th one the Queen had greeted throughout her 70-year-reign. She looked so frail, yet her face beamed as she greeted the new PM, just as she had on so many occasions throughout her life.

This morning, the news said that she had been encouraged to rest and was under a doctor's supervision, but who expected her death to come so quickly? My feeling when I heard that news was similar to the first thought I had every morning for years as my husband aged and grew frailer. "Is today the day?" Today was one of those "It is today" days.

One thing I have enjoyed watching over the years was the Queen during various church services– commemorations, funerals, thanksgivings, and Sunday services. She took her faith seriously. While she read from the bulletins for the service, I have no doubt when it came to the prayers, she knew them from memory and by heart. She paid attention to endless sermons, and I'm sure she considered them later in the day when Sunday lunch was over. Did she always like the music the choir and organ provided, plus hymns and anthems sung by the congregation? Who knows? She was very good at keeping a straight face that didn't disclose her feelings about it. Still, she sang the hymns, probably not needing the lyrics printed in front of her.

She was never shy about mentioning her faith, especially during the holidays and at times when something spiritually uplifting needed to be said. As Defender of the Faith and Head of the Church of England, she made sure her people saw her attending church regularly. But more than just talking about her faith, she lived it. She praised those who did good deeds for others, recognizing their efforts while humbly keeping her own private. She undoubtedly trusted God to guide and help her, probably never more than at the death of her beloved husband of 73 years.

I think Jesus taught her how important it was to love people, even those who hurt her or her people. Yes, rules were rules, and sometimes she had to be what seemed to be harsh, but she didn't do it capriciously. I remember seeing her face in newsreels when she visited the site of the Welsh slag-pile disaster that killed 144 people, most of them children. She hadn't wanted to go, but ultimately she did. I imagine it must have been hard for her to contemplate those deaths, perhaps thinking of how she would feel had one or more of her own been in a similar situation.

I've also seen reels of her enjoying visiting people around the world, watching their singing and dancing, seeing their world, and learning things that might be important years from the date of those visits. She delighted in dancing herself, such as at the Ghillies' Ball in Scotland.

I think Jesus also taught the Queen what it meant to be human. It is often difficult to keep a straight face when something happens, whether it is humorous, tragic, or incomprehensible. Still, Jesus continued on with his work, regardless of circumstance, and so did she. I think she understood duty in the same way Jesus did. God had sent Jesus with a mission. Elizabeth had been consecrated to a job that had come through her father, himself consecrated to the same position. Elizabeth said in a message after the 9/11 attacks, "Grief is the price we pay for love." Jesus knew the same thing, just 2000 or so years earlier.

I will miss her, but seeing her frailty just a few days ago, I am glad for her peaceful death. It feels a bit like losing a mother again. Still, there are many years of memories that pictures, books, and newsreels will continue to bring up, and I'm glad of that.

I hope God met her at the gates personally. As humble as she was in most cases, I can imagine her face at seeing God waiting to welcome her to her new mansion. Philip probably had the barbecue going as well.

May Elizabeth and Philip both now rest in peace and rise in glory together. They've left a big void here on earth.

Originally published on Episcopal Café as part of Episcopal Journal, Saturday, Sept. 10, 2022.