This week sucked, but I think Ms. Dolly would tell us that it will be okay, eventually.
Ten years and a few months ago, my sister vetoed my music selections for our mother’s funeral. She didn’t think Norman Greenbaum’s “Spirit in the Sky” was a hymn, and I’ve forgotten what the second song was or why she didn’t like it. It could have been Jackson Browne’s “Doctor My Eyes”, but I don’t remember arguing that the song could be a commentary that evokes Mark 2:17’s having inspired Jesus’ being called “The Great Physician”, which I certainly would have, if I had been inclined to put up a fight.
I wasn’t. That was a good call.
My son communicates … let’s call it efficiently. He’s capable, but disinclined to use more words than is necessary to get his point across. Ten years ago, he spoke less than he does now. He sang, but only along with someone in the same room.
My mother’s funeral, no pun intended, was dead quiet after the sermon1. It was a funeral home service, so there wasn’t a choir, and we didn’t have a soloist — the Southern Gospel singers in my family were all in Memphis at the hospital with my dying great aunt, who collapsed a few days before my mother’s surprise death.
The funeral home director cued up the music: Dolly Parton’s “How Great Thou Art,” which I hadn’t heard since I was a kid.
My son started singing along.
He hadn’t been to church more than three times in his life at this point, including two synagogue visits. The only hymns he’d grown up with were Christmas carols.
He didn’t really know my side of the family, or any of the people I’d grown up with; besides his dad and me, everyone at the funeral were strangers.
He did not care.
He sang with Ms. Dolly like she was right there beside him and they had been practicing after services for several Sundays.
Afterwards, he patted my arm and told me “it’s okay”.
And it was, eventually.
This week sucked, but I have faith it will be okay. Eventually.
- My exhausted cousin dragged himself from his beloved grandma’s bedside to give the sermon at Mom’s funeral, which I still admire, appreciate, and continue to be grateful for because the alternative could have been messy. Even worn out and nearly asleep on his feet, he preached thoughtfully instead of mouthing platitudes or politics. Heathen though I’ve undoubtedly become, I would not have put up with someone wanting to run a game of Amen Bingo at my mother’s funeral. ↩︎
Modus Dementi 