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The first funeral I ever attended was in 1984; I was 30 years old. It was the father of one of my neighbors, a woman whose oldest son went to school with my youngest son. My grandparents had passed on early; one set in Ireland, the other in NYC. I was in my twenties, pregnant and unable to travel to anywhere, but even if I wasn’t, I would not have made the trip. I loved them, but said goodbye in my own way.
Tradition says we honor our dead by paying tribute to them. Attending wakes and viewings and memorials, we sit and cry amongst the others who loved them as well, and perhaps visiting with family members we haven’t seen in a while.
I couldn’t do it.
I was deathly afraid of death.
Uncomfortable does not even begin to describe the feelings that would well up inside me when the mention of a funeral arose in conversation. I don’t know where it came from; I was never forced to attend any.
Thoughts of kneeling in front of the casket brought about terror and fear, not wanting to touch or even look at the decedent. I felt awful for those who mourned, not wanting to be around those who cried, or even allowing myself to shed a tear for fear I would sob uncontrollably and embarrass those who were already suffering.
I certainly didn’t want those who needed to be comforted consoling me.
Until I was 44 years old, I had only attended two funerals.
As is with everything thing else in life, the time when I would have to face such issues inevitably arrived. It was not for a family or even a friend. A complete stranger brought me full circle, the passing of a little old lady who had raised a family, loved her church community and everything about life itself; the good, the bad, and especially the ugly.
I had been hired six months previously as a Pastoral Business Manager for several Catholic Churches in the city; it was there that I learned the art of mourning and bereavement. Working with a priest whose calling was truly the Funeral Mass, I learned about the process of grief and mourning and saying goodbye. It was as if God himself had tapped me on the shoulder and admonished, waving a finger and saying come now, get over this, it’s not about you.
As a pastoral presence, I walked with them as they looked at a scripture reading, pick hymns and where to socialize afterward. I held my breath as I held the hand of those who were weeping; hugged those who shoulders were weary from the burdens of illness they had witnessed for so long. I learned that it is all right to cry, to laugh, and even alternate between the two emotions in an instant.
I learned the one who left us is not gone forever, just out of sight.
I learned how to truly minister to those who are grieving, but allowing them minister to me.
I learned to let them see me grieve as well. To celebrate and honor the life of someone who had touched us is the greatest gift we can offer, the ultimate in tribute, no matter how confusing, tragic or sad.
There is nothing to fear about death. I’ve gone to countless funerals since then, kissing the cheeks of friends who have left me and the faces of those who loved them, too.
Needless to say, they are becoming more frequent as times moves forward.
In fact, I read the obituaries every morning to see if I recognize the deceased, to be certain I am able to attend to say goodbye, to wish them farewell. To acknowledge that they were here and that I loved them, they affected me, they had become a part of my life. I hope when my time comes there are those who will want to say goodbye to me, unafraid and unencumbered by the trivialities of life.
No longer afraid of death and dying, I will embrace those who have embraced me.
For although we mourn loved ones who have left us, there are those who are joyous at their arrival.
Tradition says we honor our dead by paying tribute to them. Attending wakes and viewings and memorials, we sit and cry amongst the others who loved them as well, and perhaps visiting with family members we haven’t seen in a while.
I couldn’t do it.
I was deathly afraid of death.
Uncomfortable does not even begin to describe the feelings that would well up inside me when the mention of a funeral arose in conversation. I don’t know where it came from; I was never forced to attend any.
Thoughts of kneeling in front of the casket brought about terror and fear, not wanting to touch or even look at the decedent. I felt awful for those who mourned, not wanting to be around those who cried, or even allowing myself to shed a tear for fear I would sob uncontrollably and embarrass those who were already suffering.
I certainly didn’t want those who needed to be comforted consoling me.
Until I was 44 years old, I had only attended two funerals.
As is with everything thing else in life, the time when I would have to face such issues inevitably arrived. It was not for a family or even a friend. A complete stranger brought me full circle, the passing of a little old lady who had raised a family, loved her church community and everything about life itself; the good, the bad, and especially the ugly.
I had been hired six months previously as a Pastoral Business Manager for several Catholic Churches in the city; it was there that I learned the art of mourning and bereavement. Working with a priest whose calling was truly the Funeral Mass, I learned about the process of grief and mourning and saying goodbye. It was as if God himself had tapped me on the shoulder and admonished, waving a finger and saying come now, get over this, it’s not about you.
As a pastoral presence, I walked with them as they looked at a scripture reading, pick hymns and where to socialize afterward. I held my breath as I held the hand of those who were weeping; hugged those who shoulders were weary from the burdens of illness they had witnessed for so long. I learned that it is all right to cry, to laugh, and even alternate between the two emotions in an instant.
I learned the one who left us is not gone forever, just out of sight.
I learned how to truly minister to those who are grieving, but allowing them minister to me.
I learned to let them see me grieve as well. To celebrate and honor the life of someone who had touched us is the greatest gift we can offer, the ultimate in tribute, no matter how confusing, tragic or sad.
There is nothing to fear about death. I’ve gone to countless funerals since then, kissing the cheeks of friends who have left me and the faces of those who loved them, too.
Needless to say, they are becoming more frequent as times moves forward.
In fact, I read the obituaries every morning to see if I recognize the deceased, to be certain I am able to attend to say goodbye, to wish them farewell. To acknowledge that they were here and that I loved them, they affected me, they had become a part of my life. I hope when my time comes there are those who will want to say goodbye to me, unafraid and unencumbered by the trivialities of life.
No longer afraid of death and dying, I will embrace those who have embraced me.
For although we mourn loved ones who have left us, there are those who are joyous at their arrival.
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