The Funeral

The days leading up to the funeral moved quickly,

as if time had shifted into something both urgent and unreal.

We had rushed the planning. Most of the family who could come were already there, and we wanted to gather while everyone was still close.

My father was being cremated, so the flag-draped casket at the front of the room would be empty – though only a few of us knew.

I expected a small crowd.

Grief had made everything feel quieter somehow.

Smaller.

Contained.

But when we walked into the room, it was full.

Faces from years of ordinary life – neighbors, friends, people whose paths my father had crossed in ways I had never fully seen.

Something in me shifted.

Even before a word was spoken, I could see that his life had reached farther than I understood.

We had planned something simple.

Each of us children would say a few words.

Nothing elaborate.

Just goodbye.

I had stayed up most of the night trying to prepare what I would say.

Every sentence felt too small for a life.

When it was my turn, I stood and looked out at the room.

And instead of the careful words I had practiced, I told the truth.

My father loved politics.

The television or radio was almost always carrying some political discussion in the background while he worked on family history, tinkered with a project, or researched whatever had captured his curiosity at the time.

I shared a memory of one of the many phone calls where he had been passionately discussing politics while I struggled to get a word in.

Eventually, I quietly set the phone on speaker beside my baby son, who was lying on his back kicking at a mobile, and began cleaning the room while still listening.

When my father finally finished, I picked the phone back up and confessed what I had done.

He roared with laughter.

“If you keep that up,” he said, “he may hear all of my advice and become a great president one day.”

As I told the story, laughter filled the room.

Warm.

Unexpected.

For the first time in days, maybe weeks,

I found myself smiling.

When I finished, someone stood and shared a memory.

Then another.

And another.

Stories surfaced from every corner of the room.

A car he had helped repair.

A project he had volunteered for.

A joke.

A conversation.

Small pieces of a life appearing one after another.

The service we had rushed to put together somehow became exactly what it needed to be.

Later, many of us gathered at my mother's house.

People ate.

Talked quietly.

Visited in small groups.

The things people do after a funeral when no one is quite ready to go home yet.

It was 103 degrees outside.

The swamp cooler struggled.

The air conditioner wasn't much help either.

The house never seemed to cool down.

People fanned themselves with paper plates and drifted from room to room searching for a breeze.

As the afternoon slowly gave way to evening and the house grew quieter,

my brother disappeared and came back carrying an armful of Ben & Jerry's.

Ten different flavors.

As if choice itself might somehow soften the edges of the day.

No one talked much after that.

We simply sat around the kitchen table tasting one spoonful after another.

Letting the silence hold what words could not.

I chose Cherry Garcia.

Sweet.

Familiar.

Simple in a way everything else was not.

Even now, years later, it is still my favorite flavor.

And whenever I taste it, I think of that table.

Of family gathered close.

Of laughter returning unexpectedly in a room full of grief.

Of a hot summer evening when none of us were quite ready to say goodbye.

Love was still there.

Not gone.

Just changed.

Reflection

Sometimes the people we love leave pieces of themselves behind in unexpected places.

A story told at a funeral.

A favorite flavor of ice cream.

A phrase they always used.

A joke that still makes us laugh years later.

What memory of someone you love still finds its way into ordinary moments of your life?

A Gentle Invitation

Today, spend a few quiet minutes thinking about someone who has shaped your life.

What small thing reminds you of them?

A song.

A recipe.

A place.

A smell.

A favorite treat.

Let yourself sit with that memory for a moment.

Not to hold on to the past.

Simply to appreciate the ways love continues to travel with us.

You are always welcome here.

WGG