Funerals

And why I plan to go to more of them

A Neighbor’s Funeral

Last week, I had the occasion to go to a neighbor’s funeral. It was held at our church building on a Saturday morning. Apart from Brian’s¹ family—he had 10 young grandchildren—most of the people there were on the old side, long-time neighbors and coworkers. The chapel wasn’t full, but it wasn’t a bad turnout either.

I’d known Brian, but not terribly well, for the seven years that we’ve lived here. That whole time, he had been suffering from Parkinson’s disease. I’d take my morning walk with my dog and see Brian out raking leaves or puttering in his tidy garage. He moved with slow determination, riding out the tremors. Then, recently, to make things infinitely worse, cancer got its claws into him.

Brian was a member of our ward—our church congregation—and for the past several months I had been assigned to check in on him and his wife and bring them the Sacrament, as he was no longer able to attend weekly church services. My assigned partner, Matt, and I would go to Brian’s house after church. Lorraine, his wife, would greet us and bring us back to Brian, who would be sitting in his recliner, or later, lying in a hospice-provided hospital bed. We would all chat for a few minutes; Brian spoke with difficulty, a frustration that flashed in his bright-blue intelligent eyes. Then we would bless and administer the Lord’s Supper to Lorraine and Brian, say our goodbyes, and walk home.

Eventually, as Brian’s condition worsened, they asked our bishop if the oldest of their grandsons could bring them the Sacrament. I was sad that we were no longer needed, but I understood their desire for privacy.

It was Matt who told me that Brian had died. Like most deaths that come after a long illness, it was sad to hear but not unexpected. The date and time for the funeral went out to the ward.

Brian’s son gave the eulogy, or life sketch as they are often called these days. It was heartfelt, and I learned a lot about Brian that I was unaware of, having only known the man in his declining years. He had been a forest firefighter as a young man, was a seasoned hiker, and had spent a couple years in Italy as a missionary for the church. Learning what was now nothing more than trivia, I regretted that I never knew these things when they could have been part of a meaningful conversation with a neighbor.

One of Brian’s longtime friends also spoke. They met when this man drove across the country to go to college, not knowing a soul in town. He picked an apartment complex, asked if there were any open rooms, and the only available apartment was with a bunch of strangers that he would become lifelong friends with. In this man, or perhaps in Brian, I saw myself. I too made lifelong friends in college that came down to a room assignment or the seemingly random choice of a time/place for a GE class.

So I contemplate: Who will I speak for? Who will speak for me?

Funeral Maxxing

When I was talking to my dad on the phone the next day, I said: “I think want to go to more funerals.”

He laughed, but was clearly pleased at the sentiment.

“It’s the least and last thing you can do pay someone tribute: to fill up some space at their funeral, to show their family that you recognize their loved one’s existence and that the world is different now that they’re gone. I don’t remember much from mom’s funeral, but I do remember that the chapel was full. I think that speaks well for a person.”

When I say that I want to go to more funerals (and you should too), I don’t mean to be ghoulish. Don’t scan the newspaper obituaries for something to do on a Saturday morning. But if a cousin or neighbor or coworker or former classmate passes, go pay your respects.

I often write—or think about works in progress—in the minutes before I fall asleep at night. I find that valuable ideas pop into my head, sometimes related to the task at hand, sometimes not. They always seem brilliant at the time, so I write them down. As I was thinking about my experience at this funeral and what it meant to me, I remembered this line from A Christmas Carol of all things:

“Come in! And know me better, man.”

You will recognize this as the invitation given to Scrooge by the Ghost of Christmas Present. It really is the invitation of the Present, writ large. At the funeral, I listened to Brian’s son talk about his life. I had no idea about most of his interests and accomplishments. I didn’t even know that he had served a mission in Italy, a place where I have spent some time and like very much. I regret that I never got to talk to Brian about this and much more. I regret that my incuriousness killed a potential connection with someone else.

So, one of my lessons is to know the present better: to enjoy my time with my family, to chat with my neighbors, to explore my interests more boldly. It’s not new or groundbreaking, but it’s something everyone needs to learn and be reminded of.

Know the present. Soak in it. Watch the clouds shift in the sky, never to repeat. Listen to your children laugh.

1. All names have been changed out of respect.