Consumed by my loss, I didn’t notice the
hardness of the pew where I sat. I was at the funeral of my dearest friend — my
mother. She finally had lost her long battle with cancer. The hurt was so
intense, I found it hard to breathe at times.
Always supportive, mother clapped loudest at
my school plays, held a box of tissues while listening to my first heartbreak,
comforted me at my father’s death, encouraged me in college, and prayed for me
my entire life.
When mother’s illness was diagnosed, my
sister had a new baby and my brother had recently married his childhood
sweetheart, so it fell on me, the 27-year-old middle child without entanglements,
to take care of her. I counted it an honor.
“What now, Lord?” I asked sitting in church.
My life stretched out before meas an empty abyss. My brother sat stoically with
his face toward the cross while clutching his wife’s hand.
My sister sat slumped against her husband’s
shoulder, his arms around her as she cradled their child. All so deeply
grieving, no one noticed I sat alone. My place had been with our mother,
preparing her meals, helping her walk, taking her to the doctor, seeing to her
medication, reading the Bible together. Now she was with the Lord. My work was
finished and I was alone.
I heard a door open and slam shut at the back
of the church. Quick footsteps hurried along the carpeted floor. An exasperated
young man looked around briefly and then sat next to me. He folded his hands
and placed them on his lap. His eyes were brimming with tears.
He began to sniffle. ”I’m late,” he
explained, though no explanation was necessary. After several eulogies, he
leaned over and commented, “Why do they keep calling Mary by the name of
‘Margaret’?”
“Oh” “Because that was her name, Margaret.
Never Mary. No one called her ‘Mary,’ I whispered. I wondered why this person
couldn’t have sat on the other side of the church. He interrupted my grieving
with his tears and fidgeting. Who was this stranger anyway?
“No, that isn’t correct,” he insisted, as
several people glanced over at us whispering, “Her name is Mary, Mary Peters.”
“That isn’t who this is, I replied..”
“Isn’t this the Lutheran church?”
“No, the Lutheran church is across the
street.”
“Oh.”
“I believe you’re at the wrong funeral, Sir.”
The solemnness of the occasion mixed with the
realization of the man’s mistake bubbled up inside me and came out as laughter.
I cupped my hands over my face, hoping it
would be interpreted as sobs.
The creaking pew gave me away. Sharp looks
from other mourners only made the situation seem more hilarious. I peeked at
the bewildered, misguided man seated beside me.He was laughing, too, as he
glanced around, deciding it was too late for an uneventful exit.
I imagined mother laughing.
At the final “Amen,” we darted out a door and
into the parking lot. “I do believe we’ll be the talk of the town,” he smiled.
He said his name was Rick and since he had missed his aunt’s funeral, asked me
out for a cup of coffee.
