Snow Day
Today was my uncle's funeral.
The snow is blowing into drifts now. In some places, the drifts are close to a foot deep. The wind bites your face and ears and blows your hair into your eyes.
We arrived at the church this morning around 10:00--the church of my childhood, the place where Wednesday mornings were spent in chapel, drawing on the programs and watching the big kids whisper to each other during the sermon. The church where to become a member, you have to not only tithe but follow the party line. The church where my mother was told if we didn't start attending church and Sunday school regularly, my tuition to the attached school would go up. The church whose "elders" called my mother to a private meeting and demanded she tithe more (despite her being a single parent).
We don't have positive feelings for this church.
But naturally the choice of venue wasn't ours. So we went and met with relatives we barely know and prayed with them over my uncle Charlie, my grandpa's youngest brother.
I cried. I hate crying in front of people, I hate being a wuss, but more than that, I hate when people die. I know I'm supposed to believe that death isn't the end; death is only a door, a step to the next journey, but that's not easy to remember when you're staring at this person you knew who is now in a coffin. All those questions about life and death pop into your head and you wonder, "Is death really the end? Once the brain quits working, isn't that it and the rest all stories we tell ourselves so we can feel better and not be scared?"
We sang my favorite hymn--I Know that My Redeemer Lives. This made me tear up even more and the lump in my throat prevented me from singing, despite my love for this song.
If I was this torn up about a man I didn't know as well as I should, how will I react when it's my grandfather? My grandmother?
My mother?
I don't like to think on it. In fact, it's one of those things I banish from my mind as soon as it enters. But that day will come and if today was any indication, I will either need to be heavily medicated or I won't be able to function at all.
Wow, this is a really dreary topic, isn't it?
I suppose I could talk about my animosity towards my cousins and analyze the inadequacies I encounter anytime I'm in their presence. Or how my grandmother talks with her mouth full. Or how my aunt is so desperate for attention and goodwill that she tries to appear to be an expert on any subject in conversation. Or how my uncle never fails to make me laugh with his sarcasm and silly jokes. Or how I feel a sharp pang in my heart when I look at my grandfather because I love him so much and I hate that he's not the same man I knew as a child. Or how I can be so mean to my mother with my nasty tone and comments and later feel the regret prick my eyelids.
Deep down I suppose I believe death is just a door and God is waiting for me on the other side.
Or maybe it's the wanting that to be true that gets us through.
The snow is blowing into drifts now. In some places, the drifts are close to a foot deep. The wind bites your face and ears and blows your hair into your eyes.
We arrived at the church this morning around 10:00--the church of my childhood, the place where Wednesday mornings were spent in chapel, drawing on the programs and watching the big kids whisper to each other during the sermon. The church where to become a member, you have to not only tithe but follow the party line. The church where my mother was told if we didn't start attending church and Sunday school regularly, my tuition to the attached school would go up. The church whose "elders" called my mother to a private meeting and demanded she tithe more (despite her being a single parent).
We don't have positive feelings for this church.
But naturally the choice of venue wasn't ours. So we went and met with relatives we barely know and prayed with them over my uncle Charlie, my grandpa's youngest brother.
I cried. I hate crying in front of people, I hate being a wuss, but more than that, I hate when people die. I know I'm supposed to believe that death isn't the end; death is only a door, a step to the next journey, but that's not easy to remember when you're staring at this person you knew who is now in a coffin. All those questions about life and death pop into your head and you wonder, "Is death really the end? Once the brain quits working, isn't that it and the rest all stories we tell ourselves so we can feel better and not be scared?"
We sang my favorite hymn--I Know that My Redeemer Lives. This made me tear up even more and the lump in my throat prevented me from singing, despite my love for this song.
If I was this torn up about a man I didn't know as well as I should, how will I react when it's my grandfather? My grandmother?
My mother?
I don't like to think on it. In fact, it's one of those things I banish from my mind as soon as it enters. But that day will come and if today was any indication, I will either need to be heavily medicated or I won't be able to function at all.
Wow, this is a really dreary topic, isn't it?
I suppose I could talk about my animosity towards my cousins and analyze the inadequacies I encounter anytime I'm in their presence. Or how my grandmother talks with her mouth full. Or how my aunt is so desperate for attention and goodwill that she tries to appear to be an expert on any subject in conversation. Or how my uncle never fails to make me laugh with his sarcasm and silly jokes. Or how I feel a sharp pang in my heart when I look at my grandfather because I love him so much and I hate that he's not the same man I knew as a child. Or how I can be so mean to my mother with my nasty tone and comments and later feel the regret prick my eyelids.
Deep down I suppose I believe death is just a door and God is waiting for me on the other side.
Or maybe it's the wanting that to be true that gets us through.