Huge drops of sweat dripped down the backs of our black dresses in the ninety-nine-degree Texas heat. The funeral mass began at 10:00 which meant that the height of the mid-day sun would be peaking as we arrived at the cemetery for the graveside ritual. We arrived by caravan; the police motorcycle leading the motorcade, stopping at each light so that the procession could pass through. The hearse would be in the lead; lights on, shiny black, providing the dead person with their last ride through town. At the church all the drivers waited until the correct order of the procession was lined up–cop, hearse, family, friends.
The priest and the altar boys usually rode in the hearse; they were waiting at the graveside, robes flapping in the hot wind, as the rest of the cars arrived. The ground around the grave and under folding chairs was covered in fake green grass over which a tent was erected. As we waited for the Commitment Ceremony to begin, we hoped the priest would be short-winded so that we could get into the air conditioning of the Knights of Columbus Hall as soon as possible.
There, the energy immediately shifted; coats and mantillas came off, the children began to run up and down the dance floor, sliding on their knees. Reunion hugs and kisses and tears all became a rich part of reconnection among aunts, uncles, and cousins who had not seen each other since the last funeral. The delicious comfort food made by the Catholic Daughters accompanied by tooth-shattering sweet, iced tea, fed our bodies as the conversations fed our spirits. We were mortal, and vulnerable in this loss. But alive—so alive! A collective sigh seemed to go through the room; family and friends reunited, connected, brought together for a moment of time after we had completed the ceremonies of death.
There are many traditions for funerals, memorial services, and remembrance celebrations of course; we all have them in our history in one way or another. Formal or completely casual, steeped in tradition or created the week before. Anything goes. What is important, I think, is that they happen.
In his book on rituals, Hello, Goodbye, Day Schildkret says that in our culture, we “demonize endings while championing competency, self-mastery, and potential.” He suggests that our cultural message is that we can live forever, a deep denial, of course. A funeral or memorial challenges that denial; I often wonder if this is the reason some of my clients tell their families they should not do a service when they die. It is kind of a last-ditch control, isn’t it?
If you are someone thinking about that kind of mandate, here are some things to consider. (If you have already told your family this, please re-consider!)
- Sorry, but the memorial service or funeral is not about you. You will be dead, and people need to grieve for you and celebrate your life. If they honor your wishes not to have this celebration (and if you ask them not to, in most cases, they will honor that), they lose the opportunity to be in community when this monumental transition occurs. What I am saying is that it is quite loving for you not to weigh in on your post death celebration.
- Grief is an extraordinarily complex set of processes and feelings. We humans need to practice it to get better at it—and it is healthy to do that. We do not get over someone dying; we learn to live with it. The funeral or memorial service helps to mark the grieving process. It invites others to be with us and to share the stories, to laugh and to cry. It re-centers everyone to the “after.” Life without our person.
- For friends and families, there are no “rules” about how a post-death service, memorial or funeral is done. A meaningful, unique event which can be solemn, light, lively or funny are all exactly right.
We humans do only two things: we are born, and we die. Marking those events is essential to reflect the profoundness of our humanity. With birth, the honoree is present but has planned nothing. In the case of death, letting the living do the planning is best.
This says it so well:
And how they like their eggs.
Tell me about that cardigan that they wore,
With the half chewed wooden button,
A beloved early victim of the puppy.
Speak it aloud in casual conversation
And conjure them up.
You are the summoner here.
Speak confidently, and often,
So that I can see them
Sitting at the end of the table, reading glasses askew.
Do not question their space here, there is room.
Clap your hands and begin your incantations.
I want to know how they liked the little white anchovies you
Get at supermarket delis,
Never the browned tinned ones.
I am desperate to hear the rush of the waves
Over their new brown sandals.
The ones that sit, cracked and worn,
In your cupboard now.
Give me their stories, and let’s share in the living of it.
Carry the out in our coat pockets, into the night.
Like pebbles from a beach.
– Pip O’Neill