Update: I originally wrote this in late February, then realized I’d accidentally scheduled two posts on one day. So I bumped this back to April. I’m writing this update on March 26, just after returning home from an unexpected funeral.
Original post: When I wrote the Fairlawn books–which are all set in a funeral home– I wish I’d written from a place of greater experience. At the time I had never lost a parent, a spouse, or a child. My dad died in 2009, and since I’ve now buried a close family member, I know I would have written things that had simply never occurred to me before.
A few of those things.
Funeral negatives:
1. They never come at a convenient time.
2. They are a mixture of the ridiculous and the sublime– you have to worry about the mundane along with matters of eternal significance.
3. They involve tears, so you will need tissues.
4. Emotions are unpredictable and unruly. They crop up when you’d rather they stay hidden, and sometimes they absent themselves when you feel they ought to appear. And people grieve in different ways–some people are loud and dramatic, some keep their grief tucked beneath their skin.
5. Funerals involve loss, even if it is only temporary.
Funeral Positives:
1. Humor is not out of place.
2. Nearly every business and/or school grants time off for funerals.
3. Family gathers together.
4. People bring food you didn’t have to cook.
5. For a Christian, a funeral is more like a graduation from boot camp than a permanent farewell.
6. You hear stories that help you see the departed from other peoples’ perspectives.
7. Not even a high school reunion brings so many people together–people you haven’t seen in years.
8. There’s no dress code.
9. Black, if you choose to wear it, is slimming.
After my father’s funeral, which filled a small chapel, most of us went back to my mom’s house, which had been kindly invaded by members of Mom’s Sunday school class, each of whom brought a dish of something delicious. Those ladies filled the kitchen with fried chicken, potato salad, sweet potato pie, and gallons of sweet tea (yes, we live in the south), and we all trooped through the makeshift buffet line and filled our paper plates until they sagged.
All afternoon I visited with dear aunts, cousins, sisters, and family friends. I heard stories about my quiet dad I’d never heard before. I met cousins I’d never met before. We laughed, we cried, we made promises that we wouldn’t wait so long to get together again. And that night, when most of the folks had gone home, I told my mom that I’d smiled so much that my jaws hurt. 🙂
Tears of sorrow and joy mingle easily when you’re with the people you love and who love you best.
My favorite story from the day: my sister Dana and I were in a back bedroom fiddling with the computer. We were with her daughters, Brooke and Lacey. I was telling Brooke that the room we were in had been Dana’s bedroom, and the one across the hall had been my other sister’s, and the one at the end of the hallway had been mine. “Who had the computer?” Brooke asked. Her eyes got huge when I laughed and said that the computer hadn’t been invented yet.
Update for March 26: My sister Dana died on March 19th after battling an illness, but we did not expect her to leave us so soon. God was merciful–she passed away in her sleep, so her pain ended.
Dana had a circle of friends I’d never met, and they came to her funeral. They were really nice people, but I’m pretty sure some of them were not regular church goers. And when the pastor gave an invitation at the end of his talk, four or five people said they wanted to believe in Jesus. I can’t think of a better home going celebration than that.
~~Angie
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God bless you in your loss. Emotion is a fickle thing. Sometimes the grief hits hard a year later. Sometimes we end up laughing til we cry. What a blessing to have loved.
Angie, so sorry about the loss of your sister. We mourn but not as those who have no hope.
At my mom’s funeral, the pastor called for people to share their memories of Lucille. Listening to those stories, I just blubbered and blubbered. I also remember well the gathering in my home after Mom’s funeral (me on my scooter due to my broken ankle). We got out an old suitcase full of photos from as far back as the 1930s. Oh, the reminiscing and the laughter.
Thank you for your post, Angela. It resonated deeply with me, as I’m sure it will with others, especially those of us in that season of life where we say “goodbye for now” to many loved ones. I’m sorry for the loss of your sister, but indeed, what better homegoing than to see others saved at the service commemorating her life?
Angela, losing a sister is hard. I know. Prayers for you and your family. I understand the humor part you talked about with funerals. At my sisters, I found out humor is my default mechanism. And speaking of humor, the idea for my latest book came about when my uncle passed away. He left our family a junkyard to clean up. It’s called Mouse in Your Pocket. Reader are introduced to the mouse in the first page. Ha!
I’m so sorry for your loss, Angie. But I loved your perspective on funerals. So much that seems at odds with each other, and yet all are needed–the grief and the joy.
Prayers for comfort, Angie. Lovely post.
I am so sorry for your loss. What a great ending though! More souls saved by Christ! We should all have such a farewell. Prayers for comfort and peace for you and your family.
Bless you, Angie, for sharing so openly and beautifully. I’m so sorry for the loss of your sister, Dana, and yet love what you shared. What a gift of a homegoing! My mom died in 2009, same year as your dad. Joe and I have walked all four of our parents Home now. We miss them much and speak of them often. In fact, there are times in prayer when I’ll whisper to please tell Mom and Dad “so and so.” But who knows, considering the great cloud of witnesses, they may already know. Whatever the veil of heaven allows, I’m so grateful that our Forever Home awaits! Bless you, my friend. And yes, having experienced those hurts, those separations, however brief, makes such a difference in how we write about death.