Now, you may think this is a depressing way to start the day, but it isn’t. It became part of my routine when I was the Church Lady, to make sure the newspaper had gotten the information correct; spelling the decedent’s name right, the time of the funeral Mass, etc.
One of the ways to guard against becoming maudlin was to inject a little humor into the event, as it is with many of the tasks clergy face.
"Are you in there?” Father would ask me, referring to the list of the dearly departed.
I scoured the paper while sitting at the kitchen table in the rectory, oblivious to the activity around me. There were several priests living there back then; I felt like I was a special member of the boys club. The housekeeper had left a hot pot of coffee on the counter top. The brick building was old and drafty, built in 1899, just like the church it was attached to. My office was down the hall, a few doors down from the rear entrance of the church. Many a late evening I would hear the choir practicing for Sunday's service. I never kept the radio on.
“Not today” I shot back, draining the last few drops of my coffee.
The cup was an old piece from a long forgotten china set, most likely donated by a relative of the congregation who had lost a member. Many of the gatherings after the Mass were held in the parlor, and sometimes they just left everything there, too sad to bring back home with them the reminder the one they loved was no longer there.
"Then it’s a good day” he’d smile, putting on his clerical color, the white tab surrounded by all that black.
Smiling, he'd give me a tap on the shoulder and head out to whatever destination God had planned for him that day.
Old habits die hard. Nowadays I look at the obituaries to see if there are any of my former parishioners listed. The three churches I used to manage have closed, consolidated with the oldest and largest of them all. I’ve been gone close to 7 years now, but it seems an eternity. The Bishop is still going strong, as are most of the priests that I served with. I see them from time to time, and we give each other a wink and a nod. Reassigned to churches still close enough to drive to, I see them now mostly at funerals.
There have been several deaths among the throngs of parishioners that used to gather at holiday times, the one time those who had fallen away would attempt to reconnect most likely at Easter. It would force a moment of clarity for them that would behoove attendance for a few more Sunday’s, inevitably dropping out of sight until Christmas. Most of the time, however, they would come back when they were frightened or in need of help. A family member had become ill, or guidance needed in a decision. Whatever their need, they were always welcomed back into the fold until whatever prayer was fulfilled.
These days, I am struck by the number of younger deaths; I had not noticed them before. Perhaps it is because I am older that I can relate to their passing. It is not unusual to read of a 47 year old man, steamrolled by a heart attack, or a 51 year old woman’s brave battle with breast cancer, a young man's wrong turn on the ice.
We really never know when our time will come or by what method our Father will choose to call us home. The longer I live, the more grateful I become every day, mindful of what my reason for being is intended for.
I read the obituaries these days via my computer screen, a task which before took time and effort, now ever more efficient. I click up and down, easily navigating through the names to see if there are any I recognize or remember.
“Are you in there?” my beloved asks me as he puts his coat on to head out to whatever destination God has for him today.
Kissing me on the top of the head, he waits for a reply.
“Nope. Not today” I answer. “It’s a good day.”
It is.
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