07/19/2024
The thing I love most about Storynight Open Mic at Hopfidelity, is that it gives me the opportunity to read pieces which I have never read in public before. This was one of those. This piece was written after attending the funeral of an old friend in December 2010.
The Funeral and the Old Religion
Once I had left the office
and began to make my way
to the service,
it wasn’t long before I turned the corner
and the old church loomed
in the distance, at the other end of the street.
And as I made my way
walking in quiet, nervous, reverence.
Head held high, I kept a slow, steady pace.
I wore an old gray, pinstripe, second hand, wool suit.
It was something I hadn’t worn,
or taken from the closet, in a long time.
I dearly hoped
that no one would notice the moth holes,
which I myself
didn’t notice, before it was too late.
It was December and it was cold,
yet as I neared the church,
the line of grey mourners had gathered early.
At least an hour before the service,
the line already stretched from the front door
then down the church steps,
up the long sidewalk...
passed the church and the nunnery.
Winding its long way out into the drab
grey, winter street.
When I at last joined them,
I stood with the rest.
I waited for my turn to enter the church
through the heavy oak wooden doors.
Under the watchful, chiseled, gaze of St. Patrick.
From the moment, I stepped inside
the old religion
greeted me immediately.
The strange mingled presence
of comfort and regret.
A sense of loss and wonderment
for the reverence, I once held for the saints.
So much history,
too much to mention, or confront
at least for now...
Not at the funeral.
The line to greet the family was long
but the wait provided the perfect time
for personal reflection.
The 19th century church was both gothic and beautiful.
The stained glass windows and the aroma of burning incense.
It helped to conjure that almost forgotten image in my mind
of the romanticized church.
It was powerful, and for a brief moment
I was actually humbled by it.
Then looking around the room,
I noticed the stations of the cross,
as my eyes moved
from one station to the next.
And I remembered how puzzling Jesus was in to me
as a little boy,
and how he still is,
as a grown man
at least for me.
And as the line moved closer
I could see the statue of St. Joseph,
in the distance.
As well as the place to kneel, pray
and light candles for the dead.
And I thought of my own Dad immediately
as I struggled to fight back tears.
Remembering all of those times
when on rather ordinary afternoons
I would go inside to light
a candle for my father
but not because I believed in purgatory,
but just because I missed him.
The shuffle of crowded feet
and the line moved closer.
By now, I could at last
see the family lined up
to greet the mourners,
who had come that day
come to pay their respects.
And when I at last reached them
it was finally my turn.
where I fought within myself,
as to what was the appropriate thing to say.
“He was a very great man, I am so sorry for your loss,
in clumsy awkwardness
was all that I could muster.
Still fighting back tears
thinking about my own father,
and the old religion.
But when I stood before his son
An acquaintance of mine;
I hugged him as best I could
knowing just how hard it is
when they move on,
and leave us here on our own.
And we looked at each other,
both men knowing,
that in moments like this,
words have no meaning,
Nor are they even necessary.
And then,
Just beyond this mans son,
my departed friend’s wife,
stood there quietly
with tears in her eyes.
“I’m so sorry, I struggled to say.”
Giving her a long, extended hug,
before turning from the rail,
to find a place to sit,
quiet and alone
somewhere in the back of the church.
And on my knees,
I knelt through the Eucharistic prayers.
Bowing my head,
asking for forgiveness.
It was all so familiar
in the sanctuary.
And I felt a great presence
it seemed to envelope all of us.
Perhaps it was the family
Or Perhaps
it was just the many mourners.
All of us there assembled
in the collective memory of our friend.
I’d like to think that it was God.
I wish that I could believe
that it was really God.
I want so to believe.
West Chester, winter 2010
