After the funeral

Death is sad. There must be situations where death is welcome, but I don’t want to list them.  Death is sad, even if welcome. 

So we muster the best we can.  We put on our black suit and tie or black hose and heels and sit with others at the wake (presumably named such for the effort required of watchers to stay awake between death and burial as they kept watch over the body). We reminisce on memories and reconcile our plans with a new reality. We meet family again, having not seen them since the last funeral and meet new family from that branch of the tree that broke off long ago.  We shuffle around the room used for only one purpose, occasionally passing the deceased commenting how peaceful Uncle Joe looks and yet how he doesn’t look at all like himself.  Eventually, the man with the name tag herds everyone into the big room while the family circles to look intently at one another in somber reverence.  

The family is ushered into the big room, along with the man of honor. There’s no doubt Uncle Joe would rather have been buried in his overalls, but Aunt Carol insisted he put on his church pants, so here he was, clean shirt and all. Front and center.  Like church, his favorite songs were sung without his baritone and like church the new preacher spoke well for being new and all.  Uncle Joe’s favorite verse was read and Uncle Billy’s eulogy found the balance between reverent solemnity and respectful humor, which was quite an accomplishment because Uncle Billy is neither reverent nor respectful.  

At the preacher’s direction, everyone filed out and took their place in minivans and pickups under the display of the rarely used, often played with hazard lights.  The family rode in the limo, but it’s not like they imagined. There was no wet bar or casino on the other end.  The movies lie.  Either way, the man with the name tag drove them to the cemetery while most pulled over in honor of the procession without a wet bar.  

The new preacher said some more nice things and Aunt Carol touched the oak casket — Uncle Billy sure did like oak — one last time as the man with the name tag lowered the casket into the ground.  Final hugs were given and promises were made to see one another before the next funeral. The kids’ pent up energy began to leak out, so they played tag in and out of the caravan of minivans.  Families scattered to counties far away and the man with the name tag drove Aunt Carol back to the funeral home.   

This is usually where the movies fade to black, but movies lie.  Aunt Carol must go home to an empty house and cold ham.  She must start to understand all the paperwork her cousin’s daughter’s husband drew up before Uncle Joe got sick.  Aunt Carol must do this without Uncle Joe. She’ll eat her ham and potato salad (his favorite) and go to bed alone.  On Sunday, she’ll drive to hear the new preacher and sing, like always, for both she and Uncle Joe.  After church, she’ll turn on the football game because Joe loved his Cowboys, even through the bad years.  

At least this is what I imagine happens after the funeral.  I don’t know because I’ve been the one loading up my own minivan heading back to the city.  So we asked a recent widow: what happens after the funeral?  Her response was more sad than Uncle Billy’s eulogy.  While the details of her response are unique, the themes were clear, as was her call to action.  Aunt Carol would eat cold ham and make up half the bed each morning.  She’d need help working the remote and setting up her new phone so she could video the grandkids. She’d need someone to come by and put insulation on the spigots each winter and she’d need help selling Joe’s old truck.  She’d need grace as she transitioned from caretaker to widow, finding her own value in ways she never wanted to.  She'd need support as her community shifted from the couples Sunday School class to the 55 and over planned community bingo league.  She'd need thoughtful help as the small things are now the big things.  

At least this is how I understand it to go.  I don’t want to find out for a long time because death is sad. But like Uncle Joe, Aunt Carol is loved.  We mustn’t forget that.