Another Funeral…

This time it was for a really sweet old lady.  She was really old and her time had come.  Still, it is sad to stand before an open casket and realize that the body has been vacated, she is no more the person that we knew.  She is free and in a better place.  There were 33 people at the service.  34 if you count the deceased.  That is sad too.  She had outlived all of her family and many of her friends.

I debated visiting her in the hospital.  Having me go is like a kiss of death.  If you want a relative to kick, just send me to say hi.  It has taken as few as 20 minutes.  It has happened enough that I really have a phobia about this.  I opted not to go as she was mainly unconscious and had an infectious disease which required scrubbing, but I wrestled with that decision.

Grace made her a small octopus which she had on her nightstand, and all of the kids had painted things for her which were the only decorations over her bed.  Her whole room was done in a very dignified manner, expensive, tasteful furnishings, not the kind you typically see in a nursing home.  And then there were these pictures, hung with thumbtacks, out of place, definately not Martha-approved, but she loved them.  And I loved that about her.  She did request, however, that Grace’s next work “feature some human interest, in pastels”.  I laughed at that, Grace said she’d try.  Just before she leaned over and whispered in my ear, “what’s that?”

I didn’t go to the burial, but I’m glad I spared an hour of my busy time to bid farewell to my friend.  ‘Til we meet again.

Daisy and Her Red Ball

I woke up this morning at 5:30 by what I thought was Daisy jumping on me and licking my face.  I thought that was really odd because she was supposed to be in her crate.  It took a few moments of serious and collected thinking to realize that I had been dreaming.  Yet it was so real that I was shaken for a good portion of the day.  She seemed happy, excited, and eager to interact.   She didn’t seem the least bit dead.

 

I am going to interpret this as a visit from the Rainbow Bridge to let me know that she was there and ok.  Call me crazy, or wishful, maybe even just hopeful, but I feel a connection was made.  Rest in peace, beautiful creature.  I hope Heaven is full of red balls and strong squeaky toys.  If, by some freaky stroke of luck she is still alive, she was honing in on my brainwaves with some fierce canine telepathy.

 

I would be remiss if I didn’t note the caliber of the human forces fighting to save Daisy.  A lot of people saw tremendous potential in her, and a vision of how things could be different for her.  I was struck by the irony of the deep commitment of wonderful people, and how there are so many (human) children in this country/world that don’t have one hundredth of the resources that she had.  How the world could be different, not just one dog or one cat at a time, but concurrently, one child at a time.

 

Bill, R.I.P. and I Shoulda Been a Buddhist (?)

A friend of mine died last week.  For the last 2 or 3 years it has been in my head to go see him.  Every time I drove down their street I thought I should go see them.  And I didn’t.  The person for whom “Zelda” is named emailed me of his passing.  I went to the funeral.  I sat in the last row of the overflow room of the church where I had spent 3 years of my life worshipping.  I left thinking that I needed to go home and share these things with my family:

1)     My attempt at living a “regret free” life was over.

2)     We need to accept the healing power of God’s love.

3)     You never know when someone will do something for you that alters the course of your life.

I read a book last year in which the author describes his attempt to live his life backwards and revisit things that he had passed up or failed at like trying out for his high school basketball team or selling his first car.  Somehow my mind turned this into the concept of a “regret free” life.  That is every decision to do or not do something would not be a “regrettable” one.  If prompted to visit someone, I would if I could.  If I took a specific course of action for something, I told myself that I would be able to live with the consequences.  Now I know that to be not true.  I have regrets.  So I’ve changed the motto.  “Because we can.”  As in “why do we  have to go to the nursing home?  Why can’t someone else visit her?”  Because we can.  Why do I have to cook dinner?  Because you can.  We do what we can. There still might be regrets, but maybe not as many.  I’ll keep you posted.

The minister at the service spoke of the power of God’s healing love.  She did a wonderful job of relating Bill’s healing ministry and his life of service to the congregation. 

I sat down next to an elderly gent with a hearing aid.  I asked if he minded that I sat there.  He said no, in fact he would feel less lonely.  As we waited (in the last row) for the Eucharist, he leaned over and said that he had never been to an Episcopal service before and asked if I had. 

I said that it had been many years.  He said that “it” was done more efficiently at the Presbyterian Church.  But then he leaned over and said, most confidentially, “if I had to do it all over again I would be a Buddhist”.  Huh?  I must have appeared startled because he asked me if I had ever heard of that before.  He put his hands together in a simulated prayer and said “Ohm, they are so peaceful”.  He got up, went to receive the Eucharist and exited out the back door, leaving me to contemplate his remarks.  (I still am).

 

Bill probably wouldn’t have looked startled.  He would have had a look about him of compassion, even that he understood exactly what the man meant.   I could practice for the rest of my life and never achieve that look.  I felt that Bill was with us, that he was in his choir robes singing his heart out, and he was confident that if all else failed, the choir would look at the director.

But the thing that struck me most profoundly, was suddenly realizing the specific gift that Bill gave me.  When I related this story to my children later, they were stunned.  I think they thought that I was making it up.  I told them that once upon a time, mommy couldn’t speak in public.  Dumbstruck is probably too kind.  They flat out didn’t believe me.

Many, many years ago, Bill was a Cursillo Director and I was a Cha.  (If you don’t know what that means, it won’t matter to the story, if you do know, then you get the significance.  He was the top of the food chain and I was the bottom).  He assigned me to read a poem (in front of about 100 people).  I said no.  He said yes.  I said no – repeatedly.  He won.  He was the Director.

It was a poem about the masks that we all wear.  I was in tears, pleading for him to reconsider, right up to the last minute.  Right before I was “on”, he grabbed me and pushed me into the hall bathroom where he led a prayer that I would be able to conquer my fear.  He left me alone to finish praying before it was my turn.  I had never prayed so hard in my life.  I don’t remember reading the poem.  I do remember looking up and seeing tears on people’s faces when I was done.  I remember feeling the power of God’s love.

 

I told my kids that we never know what God has in store for us.  His plan is so amazing; we make choices based on things that we have learned.  We need to understand that everyone has a story, a message, something to teach us.  We then teach others through example.  We need to be grateful for opportunities that unfold around us and responsible for our own actions.

 

Bill gave me two gifts that I never fully understood until his funeral.  He taught me how to pray and he gave me the courage to conquer my fear.  I don’t exactly seek out public speaking, but it has not been a problem for me since that day.  Thanks, Bill.  Agape.