LJ Idol Week 2, Prompt: What Really Matters
"What Really Matters"
There is so much that has to be done quickly when someone dies. The afternoon of the Friday my dad died, my mom and I went to the funeral home to officially make arrangements and pay for said arrangements. Thankfully Christine went with us. She is not only a dear friend, but also the pastor of our church. My mom did not make a fuss in front of the funeral home director, but as soon as we left she started to complain.
First of all, she wanted to have the memorial service the next day to get it over with. Christine couldn’t do a service the next day because her son had a cross country race. I suggested the following Saturday, which would give my friends who work a chance to attend. My mom refused to wait a week because it would drag things out too far. She also refused to have a visitation one evening and the memorial service the next afternoon because that would be too much. I stood in the parking lot of the funeral home with my mom and Christine for half an hour in the cold, and we finally left without agreeing on a date because it started to rain.
As soon as my mom and I were in my car, she lost her “being on her good behavior for the pastor” and her complaints escalated. I texted my husband Arthur, “Pray I don’t kill my mother.” He responded, “Praying! Don’t kill your mother. Prison would not be fun.”
Mom continued complaining, “I wish Charles could do the service rather than Christine.” My friend Charles is also a pastor, but as my family attends Christine’s church, it would be customary for her to officiate the service. “That would hurt her feelings though, wouldn’t it?” I assured her it would, and offered to have Charles co-officiate. “Fine.”
“You forced me to have your father cremated.” I reminded my mom that she and dad had agreed to cremation several years ago on the condition that I didn’t put their ashes in an urn on the mantel. She replied, “We only said what you wanted to hear.” I told her, at this point, there’s nothing else we can do. Neither of us has the money for a burial, and getting a burial plot on short notice is almost impossible around here. She huffed.
“I didn’t like the funeral home director. Why did you pick this place anyway?” I asked why she didn’t like the funeral home director, and my mom said she just didn’t. I honestly don’t think my mom would have liked Mother Teresa on the day my dad died.
The rest of the way home my mom complained about the rain, the cold, the traffic, my driving, how far away my house is from the funeral home, reiterated all of her previous complaints, and refused to discuss what we were going to do with my dad’s ashes when we eventually received them from the funeral home. My house is only nine miles from the funeral home, but felt much farther with my mom in the car.
When I walked into the house, Arthur hugged me, handed me a large glass of wine, hugged my mom, and asked if she would like a whiskey and Coke. He asked when the service was going to be, and I said we didn’t know. He understands the looks I give after twenty-five years of marriage and didn’t press.
My mother couldn’t decide what she wanted to eat for dinner and didn’t like anything we suggested. Arthur and I made ourselves sandwiches and said we would make her whatever she wanted when she decided. She eventually accepted a sandwich, too. After being home for a couple of hours, Christine texted me and suggested we hold the memorial service at three in the afternoon the following Wednesday with the visitation for a couple of hours afterwards to allow friends to have a little time to stop by if they worked until five. My mom agreed.
I had told the funeral home director I planned to write the obituary that evening, but I had not expected it to take six hours to agree on a day and time for the memorial service. I went to bed at eight because I was exhausted, not only by grief but by mom drama.
Even though my mom and I often do not get along and do not have very much in common, thankfully neither of us is a morning person. I slept well, didn’t have to set an alarm, which is bliss, and had written a draft of my dad’s obituary before my mom was awake. Since my mom is not computer literate, I printed it out for her. When she emerged from the guest room, she asked if I felt better, since I had gone to bed so early the previous night. I told her I did feel better and thanked her. After she had eaten her raisin toast and had drunk her first Coke, she read the obituary and vetoed it. “I don’t like the beginning. I hate the last paragraph. You can’t say that. Take it out.”
I took things out, changed them per my mom’s instructions, substituted other things, and she continued to say she didn’t like whatever I wrote, but would not offer alternatives. I wanted to write a tribute to my dad, not only fill in the blanks in the template the funeral home uses, however my mom would not accept anything other than filling in the template blanks. In all fairness, the funeral home’s template is excellent, my dad’s obituary is perfectly acceptable, but it wasn’t what I wanted. I decided it didn’t really matter if the obituary wasn’t what I wanted, at least it was finished.
The next task was to let Christine know what hymns and scriptures we wanted for my dad’s memorial service. I started the conversation. “Dad’s favorite hymn is ‘When We All Get to Heaven’ and his favorite scripture is Philippians 4:13 ‘I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.’ We should definitely use those.”
My mom shocked me by snarling, “How do you know your dad’s favorite hymn and scripture? Did he tell you?!”
“I asked him, and yes he told me.”
My mom’s voice changed to what Arthur and I call “Dementor Mode.” “Did you ask him recently?!”
“No, it was probably 2008 when I was driving him to work after his first stroke.”
“How do you know those are still his favorites then?!”
“Well, my favorite scriptures and hymns have changed over time based on what’s happening in my life and what speaks to me at that time, but something that was once a favorite is still at least on my list of favorites. Is there a different scripture you would prefer?”
“No.” My mom glared at me. “Why would he tell you his favorites?”
“Because I asked him.”
Arthur bravely interjected, “I’ll go get hymnals so we can pick out the other hymns.”
My mom abruptly changed the subject. “What are we going to do with all of your dad’s things?”
“I’ll donate all of the wound care medication and bandages to the wound center, because they’ll use them for their patients who can’t afford them, and Manna House always accepts all sorts of medical supplies. They allow people who need help to ‘shop’ there for free. And I’ll take his clothes to the homeless shelter. They do job training and have an interview closet, and give people nice outfits for interviews and a work wardrobe when they get a job. Plus dad had plenty of warm things since he always felt cold.”
Arthur handed each of us a hymnal.
My mom growled at me, “I am not wasting a $600 suit on a homeless person!”
My friend Richard gave my dad a new suit which he had lost too much weight to wear. I saw red at my mom’s comment.
Arthur spoke up, “We don’t need to decide today where things get donated, but we do need to pick hymns so Christine and Charles can plan the memorial service.”
My mom sighed and opened the hymnal Arthur had handed her. I left the room, presumably to use the bathroom. I was too angry to stay in my mom’s presence.
Arthur showed up in the bathroom about ten minutes later and put his arms around me. I whisper-hissed “How in the fuck am I even related to her?!”
“I don’t know, sweetie. Your mom’s a pain in the ass.”
I snorted. “There’s a news flash.”
“What your mom said is horrible, but does it really matter where things are donated as long as they get used by someone? Your mom said she wants to give the suit to Vera’s husband.”
“I suppose that’s fine, and you’re right it’s not really important where things get donated as long as they aren’t wasted, but she hasn’t been this difficult in years, and I can’t take it right now!”
Arthur hugged me more tightly. "I know, hon."
When I emerged from the bathroom my mom agreed to “When We All Get to Heaven” and Philippians 4:13, and the three of us paged through our hymnals to pick a couple of other hymns. My mom did not offer any suggestions, and vetoed all of the ones I suggested, until I suggested “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.” Both of us remembered my dad’s trombone solo with their church band many years before, unfortunately long before worship services were recorded. Arthur suggested “It Is Well with My Soul” which I thought was a good suggestion since we all like it. My mom asked suspiciously, “How do you know your dad liked it?”
“Because when we sang it at church, Dad said, 'I like that hymn!'”
She reluctantly agreed, so I texted our decisions to Christine and Charles. The drama did not end there, but the planning of what we had to decide for the memorial service did.
The service was on Wednesday afternoon, since that was the most convenient day for everyone involved, especially for Arthur since he could take the entire day off from work and not have to balance meetings. There were thirty people present, which was a pretty good turn out considering it was an afternoon mid-week service in the time of covid, and I felt surrounded by love. Only three people came after work, but to me it was worth it for those three people. Christine and Charles did a wonderful job with the service, and it was a beautiful tribute to my dad’s life, which is what really mattered and made all of the planning drama fade into the background.
There is so much that has to be done quickly when someone dies. The afternoon of the Friday my dad died, my mom and I went to the funeral home to officially make arrangements and pay for said arrangements. Thankfully Christine went with us. She is not only a dear friend, but also the pastor of our church. My mom did not make a fuss in front of the funeral home director, but as soon as we left she started to complain.
First of all, she wanted to have the memorial service the next day to get it over with. Christine couldn’t do a service the next day because her son had a cross country race. I suggested the following Saturday, which would give my friends who work a chance to attend. My mom refused to wait a week because it would drag things out too far. She also refused to have a visitation one evening and the memorial service the next afternoon because that would be too much. I stood in the parking lot of the funeral home with my mom and Christine for half an hour in the cold, and we finally left without agreeing on a date because it started to rain.
As soon as my mom and I were in my car, she lost her “being on her good behavior for the pastor” and her complaints escalated. I texted my husband Arthur, “Pray I don’t kill my mother.” He responded, “Praying! Don’t kill your mother. Prison would not be fun.”
Mom continued complaining, “I wish Charles could do the service rather than Christine.” My friend Charles is also a pastor, but as my family attends Christine’s church, it would be customary for her to officiate the service. “That would hurt her feelings though, wouldn’t it?” I assured her it would, and offered to have Charles co-officiate. “Fine.”
“You forced me to have your father cremated.” I reminded my mom that she and dad had agreed to cremation several years ago on the condition that I didn’t put their ashes in an urn on the mantel. She replied, “We only said what you wanted to hear.” I told her, at this point, there’s nothing else we can do. Neither of us has the money for a burial, and getting a burial plot on short notice is almost impossible around here. She huffed.
“I didn’t like the funeral home director. Why did you pick this place anyway?” I asked why she didn’t like the funeral home director, and my mom said she just didn’t. I honestly don’t think my mom would have liked Mother Teresa on the day my dad died.
The rest of the way home my mom complained about the rain, the cold, the traffic, my driving, how far away my house is from the funeral home, reiterated all of her previous complaints, and refused to discuss what we were going to do with my dad’s ashes when we eventually received them from the funeral home. My house is only nine miles from the funeral home, but felt much farther with my mom in the car.
When I walked into the house, Arthur hugged me, handed me a large glass of wine, hugged my mom, and asked if she would like a whiskey and Coke. He asked when the service was going to be, and I said we didn’t know. He understands the looks I give after twenty-five years of marriage and didn’t press.
My mother couldn’t decide what she wanted to eat for dinner and didn’t like anything we suggested. Arthur and I made ourselves sandwiches and said we would make her whatever she wanted when she decided. She eventually accepted a sandwich, too. After being home for a couple of hours, Christine texted me and suggested we hold the memorial service at three in the afternoon the following Wednesday with the visitation for a couple of hours afterwards to allow friends to have a little time to stop by if they worked until five. My mom agreed.
I had told the funeral home director I planned to write the obituary that evening, but I had not expected it to take six hours to agree on a day and time for the memorial service. I went to bed at eight because I was exhausted, not only by grief but by mom drama.
Even though my mom and I often do not get along and do not have very much in common, thankfully neither of us is a morning person. I slept well, didn’t have to set an alarm, which is bliss, and had written a draft of my dad’s obituary before my mom was awake. Since my mom is not computer literate, I printed it out for her. When she emerged from the guest room, she asked if I felt better, since I had gone to bed so early the previous night. I told her I did feel better and thanked her. After she had eaten her raisin toast and had drunk her first Coke, she read the obituary and vetoed it. “I don’t like the beginning. I hate the last paragraph. You can’t say that. Take it out.”
I took things out, changed them per my mom’s instructions, substituted other things, and she continued to say she didn’t like whatever I wrote, but would not offer alternatives. I wanted to write a tribute to my dad, not only fill in the blanks in the template the funeral home uses, however my mom would not accept anything other than filling in the template blanks. In all fairness, the funeral home’s template is excellent, my dad’s obituary is perfectly acceptable, but it wasn’t what I wanted. I decided it didn’t really matter if the obituary wasn’t what I wanted, at least it was finished.
The next task was to let Christine know what hymns and scriptures we wanted for my dad’s memorial service. I started the conversation. “Dad’s favorite hymn is ‘When We All Get to Heaven’ and his favorite scripture is Philippians 4:13 ‘I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.’ We should definitely use those.”
My mom shocked me by snarling, “How do you know your dad’s favorite hymn and scripture? Did he tell you?!”
“I asked him, and yes he told me.”
My mom’s voice changed to what Arthur and I call “Dementor Mode.” “Did you ask him recently?!”
“No, it was probably 2008 when I was driving him to work after his first stroke.”
“How do you know those are still his favorites then?!”
“Well, my favorite scriptures and hymns have changed over time based on what’s happening in my life and what speaks to me at that time, but something that was once a favorite is still at least on my list of favorites. Is there a different scripture you would prefer?”
“No.” My mom glared at me. “Why would he tell you his favorites?”
“Because I asked him.”
Arthur bravely interjected, “I’ll go get hymnals so we can pick out the other hymns.”
My mom abruptly changed the subject. “What are we going to do with all of your dad’s things?”
“I’ll donate all of the wound care medication and bandages to the wound center, because they’ll use them for their patients who can’t afford them, and Manna House always accepts all sorts of medical supplies. They allow people who need help to ‘shop’ there for free. And I’ll take his clothes to the homeless shelter. They do job training and have an interview closet, and give people nice outfits for interviews and a work wardrobe when they get a job. Plus dad had plenty of warm things since he always felt cold.”
Arthur handed each of us a hymnal.
My mom growled at me, “I am not wasting a $600 suit on a homeless person!”
My friend Richard gave my dad a new suit which he had lost too much weight to wear. I saw red at my mom’s comment.
Arthur spoke up, “We don’t need to decide today where things get donated, but we do need to pick hymns so Christine and Charles can plan the memorial service.”
My mom sighed and opened the hymnal Arthur had handed her. I left the room, presumably to use the bathroom. I was too angry to stay in my mom’s presence.
Arthur showed up in the bathroom about ten minutes later and put his arms around me. I whisper-hissed “How in the fuck am I even related to her?!”
“I don’t know, sweetie. Your mom’s a pain in the ass.”
I snorted. “There’s a news flash.”
“What your mom said is horrible, but does it really matter where things are donated as long as they get used by someone? Your mom said she wants to give the suit to Vera’s husband.”
“I suppose that’s fine, and you’re right it’s not really important where things get donated as long as they aren’t wasted, but she hasn’t been this difficult in years, and I can’t take it right now!”
Arthur hugged me more tightly. "I know, hon."
When I emerged from the bathroom my mom agreed to “When We All Get to Heaven” and Philippians 4:13, and the three of us paged through our hymnals to pick a couple of other hymns. My mom did not offer any suggestions, and vetoed all of the ones I suggested, until I suggested “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.” Both of us remembered my dad’s trombone solo with their church band many years before, unfortunately long before worship services were recorded. Arthur suggested “It Is Well with My Soul” which I thought was a good suggestion since we all like it. My mom asked suspiciously, “How do you know your dad liked it?”
“Because when we sang it at church, Dad said, 'I like that hymn!'”
She reluctantly agreed, so I texted our decisions to Christine and Charles. The drama did not end there, but the planning of what we had to decide for the memorial service did.
The service was on Wednesday afternoon, since that was the most convenient day for everyone involved, especially for Arthur since he could take the entire day off from work and not have to balance meetings. There were thirty people present, which was a pretty good turn out considering it was an afternoon mid-week service in the time of covid, and I felt surrounded by love. Only three people came after work, but to me it was worth it for those three people. Christine and Charles did a wonderful job with the service, and it was a beautiful tribute to my dad’s life, which is what really mattered and made all of the planning drama fade into the background.