A Lesson in Discomfort and Humility
This past week, my father-in-law, Max, passed away. The memorial and burial process, in small towns anyway, is a ceremony for greeting the reality of death, the loss of another senior person who has passed on.
Among my roles, after I got to the funeral home after a half-continent trek with my little son, was to be part of the greeting line at the funeral home where my wife, her sisters and their husbands "received" visitors.
Politely, and with a smile, we worked to exchange an interested acquaintance or friend of Max with information about where we lived now, how old our children are. Occasionally, I would gently touch the small of my wife's back -- letting her know that I was there. My face screwed up a confident statement of support.
As a middle-aged man born to Jewish parents, I have no experience with this kind of process; it is customary in Judaic traditions to insure that the practice of burying the body within twenty four hours is adhered to. There are no wakes, no open coffins, no big money for funeral homes to embalm and host a "Visitation." (Another reason not to like the Jews.) No chance for little kids to run around clearly demonstrating their boredom and irreverence of any solemnity.
"This town, its people, are old" I thought. Stooped over octogenarians look up at me, above the rims of their plastic-framed eyeglasses, trying to hear what Patty has just said: "This is my husband, George."
I continued my thinking: slowly, it seems to me, this little rural city of 2,000 is dying. Becoming a shadow of what it used to be. Retail stores closing, old buildings being taken down instead of refurbished. "How could you hang around while that happened?" I wondered. "Why not leave the ship?"
This is not a logical question on which to reflect. I remember a truism that I got years ago: it's much easier to rock the boat when you're not in it. Yup! As long as I've got a wetsuit on, I guess.
These reflections now seem incoherent, untethered and it makes me jittery. Perhaps, that's the way I'm supposed to feel after a funeral and a loss.
This past week, my father-in-law, Max, passed away. The memorial and burial process, in small towns anyway, is a ceremony for greeting the reality of death, the loss of another senior person who has passed on.
Among my roles, after I got to the funeral home after a half-continent trek with my little son, was to be part of the greeting line at the funeral home where my wife, her sisters and their husbands "received" visitors.
Politely, and with a smile, we worked to exchange an interested acquaintance or friend of Max with information about where we lived now, how old our children are. Occasionally, I would gently touch the small of my wife's back -- letting her know that I was there. My face screwed up a confident statement of support.
As a middle-aged man born to Jewish parents, I have no experience with this kind of process; it is customary in Judaic traditions to insure that the practice of burying the body within twenty four hours is adhered to. There are no wakes, no open coffins, no big money for funeral homes to embalm and host a "Visitation." (Another reason not to like the Jews.) No chance for little kids to run around clearly demonstrating their boredom and irreverence of any solemnity.
"This town, its people, are old" I thought. Stooped over octogenarians look up at me, above the rims of their plastic-framed eyeglasses, trying to hear what Patty has just said: "This is my husband, George."
I continued my thinking: slowly, it seems to me, this little rural city of 2,000 is dying. Becoming a shadow of what it used to be. Retail stores closing, old buildings being taken down instead of refurbished. "How could you hang around while that happened?" I wondered. "Why not leave the ship?"
This is not a logical question on which to reflect. I remember a truism that I got years ago: it's much easier to rock the boat when you're not in it. Yup! As long as I've got a wetsuit on, I guess.
These reflections now seem incoherent, untethered and it makes me jittery. Perhaps, that's the way I'm supposed to feel after a funeral and a loss.
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