So far this month I’ve attended four visitations and one funeral. My black clothes have certainly had a workout, and I’m hoping not to have to put on my tight black funeral shoes again soon.
I’m not making light of a serious subject. A visitation, or wake if you prefer that term, or a funeral is a serious event for survivors.
When I was younger, I was so fearful of the whole process of death that I could hardly force myself to attend a visitation, much less a funeral. But as I’ve aged and grown more understanding of the reality of death, I find that these occasions are ironically a comfort to me.
The survivors themselves comfort me when I attend a funeral. Despite their loss and their sadness, they have been able to plan and participate in an event to say good-bye to their loved one in a way that honors that person’s life. They greet and graciously accept the comfort of friends, and, amazingly, give comfort by thanking us for coming and showing us that life goes on.
I read recently about one primitive tribe somewhere that takes Aunt Lootie Mae’s body when she dies, places it in her hut, gathers all her earthly possessions into a pile around her and sets fire to the hut. (One has to wonder if the other people who lived in that hut have any say in the process.) Then Aunt Lootie Mae’s name is never spoken again and her life is never mentioned again. This is thought to be a kindness to the survivors— just get death over with quickly.
In some places in America, the customs are similar. There are drive-thru funeral parlors and websites where you simply type in your condolences so that you’ve met the requirements of offering sympathy without having to face the survivors.
All the time I lived in California, I never attended a funeral. For one thing, my family members cooperated by not dying during that time. As for neighbors, we hardly knew each other. When our elderly nextdoor neighbor died, we didn’t hear about it for a month.
I prefer the way Simpson countians deal with death.
As soon as a death occurs among us, the word goes out. We have the benefit of knowing each other, often through long relationships. We care about our neighbors. Even if we don’t know the deceased well, we usually have a connection, and people here feel more responsible for responding to their connections.
Friends send flowers to the funeral home and take gifts and food to the survivors. They make donations in the deceased’s name to churches and charities. They send cards. The survivors are shown that they are not the only ones who cared for their lost loved one.
In turn, the survivors plan a service that not only honors the one lost but also comforts those who come to support them.
I appreciate the custom of displaying photos of the deceased at the funeral home. It reminds us all that there were good, happy times for the person who has gone on.
I appreciate the “reunion” atmosphere of funerals here, with people greeting each other a little more warmly, the occasion itself reminding us that life is short and family and friends are precious. You wouldn’t get that warmth from a drive-by visitation.
The service itself is usually designed to do two things: honor the life of the deceased and comfort the survivors. Depending on the depth of their grief, those survivors may just sit mutely through the service, unable to take in even the comforting words.
But for those who come to support the survivors, the service can be a great comfort, and it can be a challenge to live a life that will give the preacher something good to say about us one day. It’s a challenge in some cases, I’m sure, to find something positive to say about a life that was less than exemplary.
Even if the preacher can’t promise the family that their wayward member is in heaven, I believe that every human, however he or she lived, can still be honored, at least for being loved by someone, for being part of the human community, for being unique in some way. Every person deserves to have their passing marked, even if their life choices can’t be celebrated. A funeral may be the only celebration some people ever get.
I wonder sometimes what will be said at my own funeral. The preacher won’t be able to list any great achievements for me. The scripture often used at women’s funerals is Proverbs 31, the Good Woman passage.
Unfortunately, most of that woman’s accolades aren’t true for me, except the verse that says “She bringeth her food from afar.” That applies.
If you own a restaurant here from which I’ve eaten or brought home takeout “from afar,” I hope you’ll attend my funeral to honor my own little contribution to your prosperity and leave feeling comforted.
