“A Job Well Done”

I've been away a few days, dealing with life issues. I'll get back to observations on our latest Supreme Court nominee, the California Supreme Court's ruling on Prop 8, and the NBA playoffs in the next few posts, but first, some thoughts about an amazing day and how fleeting and random life can be.

First, shoutouts to two very special people, my mother and her sister, who observed their birthdays on May 29. The remarkable thing is that my mom and my aunt, while born on the same day to the same parents, are not twins, but were born 16 years apart. What are the odds of that?

At any rate, beyond the mere accomplishment of adding another year to their total, I doubt that either of them will ever forget this birthday. That's because it happened to fall one day after their oldest surviving sister was laid to rest.

This was, by no means, my first funeral. In the course of my life, I've attended the services of my father, three grandparents, five aunts and uncles, a few cousins and countless other people that I knew and loved. I've dreaded every one of them, not necessarily because I fear death, but because I never know what to do or what to say. You want to be encouraging, but "I'm sorry for your loss,' and a hug feel remarkably inadequate when that time comes. I know that from personal experience when my dad died nearly three years ago. I appreciated the sentiments of everyone, but I wanted my father back.

And between you and me, I still do.

I was surprised and honored when my cousin called Monday to ask if I would serve as a pallbearer for my aunt. I had done so as a teenager for my grandmother, but that was a million years ago. The function was the same, to be sure, but my understanding was different. Not deeper. Just different.

The day moved in slow motion, from the time I arrived at the church to the lining up with the other pallbearers to watching the family come in and pay their last respects to my aunt. The service moved along quickly and was done in just over an hour.

(A quick note on behalf of the church. Religion has taken a pretty bad beating recently, and, in many cases, for good reason. Far too many preachers, pastors and priests have laid out God's vindictive and vengeful side to a population that is desperately in need of hope and solace.

But if you had been sitting in the pews of the church where my aunt's funeral took place, you'd have heard two ministers present the side of God that I am familiar with, the side that offers comfort and peace to those who need it at the time they need it.

You'd have heard a female reverend remind a man who saw the love of his life, someone with whom he had shared nearly 60 years of good and bad, joy and sorrow, lying before him that death doesn't end love, but only changes it somewhat. You'd have heard a male pastor tell a grieving family that at the end of the journey contentment and serenity are coming, even if the rest of the world doesn't understand how you live the way you do.

To paraphrase Linus Van Pelt, that's what the church is all about, Charlie Brown.]

The ride to the cemetery felt longer than the actual service. Along the way, the procession went by the hospital center where my aunt and my mother had both worked, and my brother and sister and I shared memories of the place that had been such a part of our family's life for so long.

My aunt's body was taken to a veteran's cemetery and the interment service had to wait for another service to finish, which gave us time to get out of our cars and share reminiscences.

Finally, it was time. There was no graveside service; instead, we went into a little chapel on the grounds. The pastor said a few words, the funeral director spread sand on the casket in the shape of the cross, and we carried my aunt back out to the hearse. My uncle, who had been so strong, finally and understandably, broke down at the prospect of saying goodbye to the woman with whom he had shared 60 years of marriage.

Back at the church, the family and friends gathered to eat and talk and laugh. My mother, who became the oldest of three surviving siblings, told me later that she held her tears in check until she got home that night from the funeral. I hope that I can be that strong the next time I am called to be.

In the days since, I have thought a lot about the eulogy, where the pastor traced the stages of my aunt's life, from childhood to marriage to adulthood to motherhood. She pronounced that my aunt's life had been "a job well done."

Truer words were never spoken.