Angie
I was in middle school when I went to my first funeral. The father of a family we were close to had just died I told my dad I didn’t want to go to the service. I’ve always hated the idea of death—the morbidity of it, the finality of it, the mystery of it—and I wasn’t getting anywhere near a casket until I was in one. My dad said to me amid preteen protests, “It is better to enter a house of mourning than a house of feasting” (Ecc 7:2).
After losing our sweet Nana, Angelyn Whiddon, we went to the house of mourning together. As a family. I hid behind Caroline as we walked down the center aisle, clutching her arm as we got closer to Nana. It was every bit as weird, mysterious, and unsettling as I’d remembered. It was so quiet in there. Almost like speaking isn’t allowed. That quiet.
I didn’t know where to go or where to sit, so I just took cues from the rest of the family and plopped down next to Alex. As I looked around, I saw some frequent fliers: Sadness. Silence. Heartache. Sorrow. But then I heard a rustle like someone had opened a bag of chips.
Joy had slipped into the back row unnoticed and was eating a bag of airplane pretzels. She was wearing a wrinkled white dress that looked like it had been borrowed or slept in (must have had a double-header that weekend). She was sitting the back of the church and seemed to be comforting Grief as he cried quietly into a borrowed handkerchief. I didn’t think they could be in the same room, let alone seated together, but there they were. Side by side.
“Sorry I’m late” she mouthed to me with a sympathetic smile. I nodded, relieved, and turned my attention back to the front. We were all there to see Nana and tell stories about her, so we listened as my dad shared some of her greatest hits. She’d lived most of her life by the time I met her and, by all accounts, was her best, most vibrant self when she was with Papa. I hated having to say goodbye, but I knew how much she missed Papa and how ready she was to see him again.
It’s too bad that we eulogize the dead and not the living; she would have gotten a real kick out of some of the stories. But I’ve always taken eulogies not as a tribute to the dead but a warning for the living since we, after all, are the only ones listening. Eulogies remind us that we are mortal and when the show is over, there are no reruns. Every seat on that long, black train has been assigned and it’s already left the station
On hope and fear
I know how much Nana missed Papa. I know how much she wanted to see him again and the confidence that she would was a comfort to her after she lost him 32 years ago. I was thinking about them when I was standing outside the church, quietly crying into my own borrowed handkerchief wondering when I would feel joy again. Tonight? Tomorrow? Next week? Never? Then, as if on cue, I saw Joy floating towards me, slowly coming into focus.
She wasn’t in white but may as well have been. And she doesn’t really go by Joy, most people just call her Lisa—the woman whose husband had died all those years ago when I was in middle school. I’ve always loved Lisa. Everyone does. She was probably one of those kids who got in trouble for talking in the back of the class but made the teachers laugh so nothing ever came of it. If anyone could hold both grief and joy at the same time, one in each hand, it was Lisa.
She put her hands on my shoulders and gave me the only look I remember from that day and said, “I know your grandmother loved your grandfather like I loved Paul. The first thing I’m gonna do when I get up to heaven is say “Jesus, it’s nice to meet you! But I want to see my Paul first.’”
So I imagine ol’ Angie tapping her toes like she’s in line at the DMV as those pearly gates slowly creak apart. And when they’re open just barely enough for her to squeeze through, I can see her stomping up the golden path in the celestial version of “I’d like to speak to the manager”.
“Jesus! Nice to meet you. You look different than your pictures. But if you don’t mind, I want to see my Gene first.” And I bet you that’s exactly what she did.