A Funeral Story

This January, my grandmother celebrated her 90th birthday. She was surrounded by her three sons and 8 of her 17 great-grandchildren. With the exception of a few minor glitches that come after 90 years of living, she is in great health.

My grandfather, also in great physical shape, will turn 89 in April, followed closely by my other grandmother, Nana, in June. Nana is still driving.

Altogether, our children still have five great-grandparents living, four of whom we see on a regular basis. This, I believe, is remarkable.

This remarkable living legacy is the reason why, by the grace of God, I don't have a lot of experience with funerals.

There have been a few - my other grandfather passed away when I was in college, but only after losing both legs in WWII, surviving a major heart attack and quadruple bypass surgery and a pretty serious stroke, among many, many other trials. He was a fighter, and though we all miss him, his funeral was like a victory celebration - his fight was over and he had beaten more than any of us would ever face in our lifetime. It was the first time I understood that funerals were a time to show your respect not just for the person who died, but for the family who suffered the loss.

When thinking about how to write this post for Giving Up on Perfect's Remarkable Faith series, my mind returns to one specific funeral that taught me the importance of hope, because it was a completely hopeless ceremony. The person we were remembering that day was not a person of faith - not of any kind - so the service was devoid of any spirituality. To so closely watch a family suffer without having any hope of reuniting, or even believing the loved one was in "a better place"...it was painful and convicting.

My mom talks about how she wants "I'll Fly Away" sung at her funeral, because she wants people to know that she is gone to glory. I like the idea of one of those parades they do in New Orleans. I love the idea of people at my funeral laughing and celebrating and looking forward to partying with me again...but more than that, I love the idea of them laughing and celebrating and partying with me NOW.

I'm reminded of an episode of Little House on the Prairie where one of the Walnut Grove neighbors - and elderly lady - decides to stage her own death and funeral in order to bring her family together one last time while she can still see them. She figures that they are too busy to visit her while she's alive, but they won't be able to resist attending her funeral. Behind the curtain, she watches and listens as family reunites and sings her praises after they believe she's gone. Unable to conceal herself any longer, she appears in the middle of the room and gives them all grief for waiting until they believed she'd died to actually start acting like a family. And then they have a big party and love on each other - on this side of eternity.

I think it's a brilliant idea. Why do we wait for funerals and memorial services to convict us of not loving enough? Or not sharing enough? How could I let anyone in my family get to the grave before I tell them about Hope? God, give me the courage and belief never to attend another hopeless funeral...

Meanwhile, Gram tells me she'll be 210 on her next birthday. (I told you there were a few glitches.) And should anything happen to me before I have time to plan it myself, no somber, hopeless service please. I want a big ol' rock concert.