The Latest Elegy
As I was listening to a poem read by a mourner last Saturday night, it occured to me that I have not attended very many funerals. About 5 or 6, total. The most memorable ones occured back-to-back when I was 15. First it was my grandfather, who expired at 77 from cirrhosis of the liver. The next one was a true shock, another Arrow of Real Life to pierce my tender exterior-my classmmate since kindergarten. She was riding back with several other cheerleaders from a weekend camp in N. FL. The van flipped over multiple times. A few days later, I joined what seemed like all of West Palm Beach at the First Baptist Church. A horrible, unremittingly bleak day, yet hopeful. She had claimed Victory.
There were opportunities for several more, but I passed for the usual reasons/excuses of being otherwise occupied or some other half-hearted response. I had also not reconciled my feelings about death, of anyone's. The opportunities for such services were thankfully not as numerous as those for the chance to witness someones' matrimony.
The mourner continued, slowly, tearfully choked her tribute to her departed friend and co-worker. She struggled through descriptions of sunsets and dawns, doves taking flight, blooming flowers and the coming frost. It was elegant, free of pretension. Sorta like Linda*.
Well, Linda may not have been "elegant" in the traditional sense. In fact, she was about as far removed from daintiness as could be possible. I met her in the late 1990s while I was working at a mom and pop pharmacy. She delivered our meds. My first impressions of her, I have to confess, were not warm. Her perpetually hoarse tone suggested years of Marlboros. The shambling appearance screamed out "female truck driver". Not some little 4 x 4, but a big honkin' 18-wheeler. Almost like "Large Marge" from PEE WEE'S BIG ADVENTURE.
She'd typically bust through our front door, already barking unitelligibles as she made her way back. She'd brazenly grab orders right from my hands, speaking at me like a disciplinarian, demanding to know how to navigate her way to someone's house. She was loud, brash. She was also totally transparent and honest. She could discern even the smallest increment of bullshit from anyone. Even as I initially braced against her far from gentle demeanor, I immediately respected her genuineness. It only took a week or so before we became friendly colleagues.
As the years slipped away, she even began to confide some rather personal items to me. She asked me to pray for her family, for her "wild" sons, her husband's difficulties. She once told me that I had "a trusting face." I'd heard this more than once. Some years before, a distraught waitress at a TGI Friday's began to pour her heart out to me somewhere between the spinach dip and the baked brownie decadence. So into her story she was that she actually sat down and gave me every detail. Needless to say, my date that night was not pleased.
When another former co-worker called afew weeks ago to inform me that Linda was in the hospital, comatose, with a very poor prognosis, I began to recall all the mindless banter I'd had with Linda that often transformed into serious discussions. One second we'd be joking about one of our customers' demeanors, the next we'd be sharing what our faith meant to us. During the time I knew her, I had also transformed from apathetic backslider to freshly renewed steward. I had spent so much of my 20s wrapped up in my own amusement, ersatz heir to my idea of contentment. When people shared their miracles with me, I listened politely but inwardly I was distant, lost in my own nonsense. In some unique way, I believe the Lord used Linda to grab my ineffectual self by the lapel and force me to re-examine, to listen to that still small voice, the one which dwelled inside of me even during my lowest moments.
I had not seen Linda in something like 7 years. All of the remembrances from her family and friends painted much the same picture with which I was familiar. Amidst the weeping, there were chuckles. Knowing chuckles. These occured after the interestingly timed thunderclaps boomed somewhere high above the funeral home. I know what they were thinking. It crossed my mind, too. Victory. RIP.
*name changed
There were opportunities for several more, but I passed for the usual reasons/excuses of being otherwise occupied or some other half-hearted response. I had also not reconciled my feelings about death, of anyone's. The opportunities for such services were thankfully not as numerous as those for the chance to witness someones' matrimony.
The mourner continued, slowly, tearfully choked her tribute to her departed friend and co-worker. She struggled through descriptions of sunsets and dawns, doves taking flight, blooming flowers and the coming frost. It was elegant, free of pretension. Sorta like Linda*.
Well, Linda may not have been "elegant" in the traditional sense. In fact, she was about as far removed from daintiness as could be possible. I met her in the late 1990s while I was working at a mom and pop pharmacy. She delivered our meds. My first impressions of her, I have to confess, were not warm. Her perpetually hoarse tone suggested years of Marlboros. The shambling appearance screamed out "female truck driver". Not some little 4 x 4, but a big honkin' 18-wheeler. Almost like "Large Marge" from PEE WEE'S BIG ADVENTURE.
She'd typically bust through our front door, already barking unitelligibles as she made her way back. She'd brazenly grab orders right from my hands, speaking at me like a disciplinarian, demanding to know how to navigate her way to someone's house. She was loud, brash. She was also totally transparent and honest. She could discern even the smallest increment of bullshit from anyone. Even as I initially braced against her far from gentle demeanor, I immediately respected her genuineness. It only took a week or so before we became friendly colleagues.
As the years slipped away, she even began to confide some rather personal items to me. She asked me to pray for her family, for her "wild" sons, her husband's difficulties. She once told me that I had "a trusting face." I'd heard this more than once. Some years before, a distraught waitress at a TGI Friday's began to pour her heart out to me somewhere between the spinach dip and the baked brownie decadence. So into her story she was that she actually sat down and gave me every detail. Needless to say, my date that night was not pleased.
When another former co-worker called afew weeks ago to inform me that Linda was in the hospital, comatose, with a very poor prognosis, I began to recall all the mindless banter I'd had with Linda that often transformed into serious discussions. One second we'd be joking about one of our customers' demeanors, the next we'd be sharing what our faith meant to us. During the time I knew her, I had also transformed from apathetic backslider to freshly renewed steward. I had spent so much of my 20s wrapped up in my own amusement, ersatz heir to my idea of contentment. When people shared their miracles with me, I listened politely but inwardly I was distant, lost in my own nonsense. In some unique way, I believe the Lord used Linda to grab my ineffectual self by the lapel and force me to re-examine, to listen to that still small voice, the one which dwelled inside of me even during my lowest moments.
I had not seen Linda in something like 7 years. All of the remembrances from her family and friends painted much the same picture with which I was familiar. Amidst the weeping, there were chuckles. Knowing chuckles. These occured after the interestingly timed thunderclaps boomed somewhere high above the funeral home. I know what they were thinking. It crossed my mind, too. Victory. RIP.
*name changed
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