Two funerals in one week, both attended by a lot of the same people. It was two of our old, old friends, one 95 years and one 80. When I was young, I thought that was terribly ancient. Now it's not so far away. 80 is the new 60, right? The same pastor preached and the same pianist played for both, but it was all good. So very good. Music flowed, rich words were sung, hugs given and received, tears dabbed from eyes, friends reunited. As I listened to the exceptional sermons, it came to me that this was the finest part of life. Funerals aren't always that way and there's not always peace or joy accompanying them. But for these, that is what was present. I've been at wakes where people made things right with each other. Hatchets buried, bridges gapped. The summation of life is right there in that death room, good and bad, life and death, future and past.
One of my grandbabies was with me for one of them, asking a hundred questions. Where is he? Why is he dead? Where's his wife? Her best thoughts came after this one: "Yaya, was he sick?" I told her yes and that he was old. She said, "But he's glad he's not here now. He's with Jesus." Four year old wisdom. The occasional joke sprinkled in with the speakers made her laugh, loud and uninhibited, making us all chuckle more. The joy of a child, mixed in with the sorrow of death. There's hope in that, hope that tomorrow will indeed come.
So winding up this week with funerals and a hurricane in the mix, I feel renewed. We hunkered down with naps and food while the wind howled around us; shortened work days reminiscent of snow days in Georgia that never usually materialize. But it was okay. A fine excuse to muse and pray for the families those who've passed on, those who are struggling elsewhere with trials, and to love and be grateful for those around us. It was good to remember that we can stop when we need to. And we don't have to wait for a hurricane to do it.
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