Funeral In a Small Town - Part IV

A small mousy man with large gold-rimmed spectacles approaches the podium. If I remember right, he is a preacher at the church Nanny used to attend. He calls her a sainted woman. He gives a little sermon about how her family is her heavenly family now and that only those bound for heaven can be part of that family. He says that her earthly family comes second to her heavenly family. And then he says that only those members of her family who are saved will remain in her heart because they are the only ones she will see in heaven.

I feel a white hot bolt of anger deep in my gut.

I can’t help but steal a glance at Jerry. He is not saved, and I wonder if this preacher has angered him too. Earlier, one of his brothers told him that the only way to be with his Mama now, was to let God into his heart and be saved. I thought it an unkind and predatory thing, though I know that is terribly unfair. In all likelihood, the brother was just trying to help, using the only tool at his disposal. Faith. But I am so very weary of every hope stealing hardship becoming a platform for salvation. And what Jerry needs at this moment, is not salvation, though I suppose there those who would argue that is exactly what he needs. But I think a hug would probably be a lot more welcome and lot less difficult to come by.

Jerry’s face is stony. Inscrutable. Closed.

Finally the mousy man steps down and the soloist is introduced. The song she will be singing is “Press On, It Won’t Be Very Long”. It’s not a hymn I am familiar with. A pale, bland woman whom I remember from the viewing steps onto the dais and raises a microphone to her lips.

I don’t know what I was expecting…perhaps some suitably dignified dirge from the funerals of my childhood…but the sound that issues from that unassuming woman startles me, rocks to me to the core. That sound comes from the place inside each of us where we harbor our most sacred joys, our deepest fears, and our most shameful secrets. It is a sweet, soulful, haunting sound. It makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck like a lonely train whistle in the distance, or a loon crying over a moonlit lake. There is heartache, sadness, loneliness and loss in that mournful wail, but also….joy. Exaltation. The purity of hope and the certainty of salvation. That sound comes from her soul.

I am stunned by my reaction to a simple country hymn. I am stunned by the ache that it puts in my belly and the lump that it puts in my throat. I struggle to put a name to what I am feeling, pushing away the knowledge that what chokes me, is the bitter green gall of envy. Because it is clear from the power and the pathos of the words she sings…she has the solace of a convicted heart. She possesses the one thing I know I will never have.

Suddenly a cry rises up from the congregation.

“Praise Jesus!”

And another.

“YES Lord!”

More voices join in, until the soloist is barely heard above the din of religious zeal. They are overjoyed by the knowledge that they will soon be going home to Glory. They echo the words she is singing…"Press ooooooon, it won’t be ve-ery long"…

“Press ON Lord!”

“Not long now Jesus!”

People are weeping, wailing, praising, rejoicing. Hands wave in the air, faces are upturned, rapturous. It is like nothing I have ever seen and I sit in mute astonishment taking it all in. The spectacle is thoroughly alien, somewhat unsettling and yet, somehow, inexpressibly beautiful.

Beside me, they boys have gone still, their relentless fidgeting ceasing. They are as captivated as I am by what they are seeing. Pre-Pubescent One glances at me and then blushes. I don’t know why. I wonder if he is embarrassed for the shouters. I am, a little. My Yankee reserve finds it difficult to reconcile this overt display of spiritual fervor. Where I come from, religious ceremonies are somber, dignified affairs. Reverence is demonstrated through quiet solemnity, respectful silence and rapt attention. The religious teachings of my youth, though largely abandoned, still dictate my sense of propriety. Even if so moved, I would be unable to express my joy so unabashedly. And I find that I am a little saddened at the thought.

The song ends on one long, succulent note. It is held, and then fades away softly into warbled, whispered nothingness. The hands that have been waving in the air now drift back to laps and clasp once again into respectable primness. Brows are mopped. The rapture is quelled.

It is utterly quiet in the tiny church.

Into the quiet, steps Brother Dwight. He is larger than life, and as he mounts the steps and takes his place behind the podium, I’ll be damned if a fortuitously placed halogen light hasn’t created a beatific halo around his head. It’s the kind of cheap parlor trick that one expects from weeping televangelists on late night TV. It’s not a trick. But I can’t help thinking that Brother Dwight would be pleased if he knew he was being bathed in pseudo-celestial brilliance. Cu-cu-ca-choo, Brother Walrus.

Despite his resemblance to a Walrus, he has a dignified air. And as he begins to speak, I find I am eager to hear what he will say. The first speaker disappointed me with his finger wagging. But Brother Dwight looks as if he has very meaningful things to say.

And he does. But not about Nanny. He says nothing about her having borne and raised nine children. He says nothing about her having been a devoted wife for nearly 50 years. He says nothing of her many kind and charitable acts. He says nothing of her mouth watering fried apple pies, or her lighter than air biscuits. He says nothing about who she was irrespective of her faith. Nope. I think it’s fair to say that Brother Dwight sees this funeral not as a commemoration, but an opportunity. Brother Dwight is here to save souls. I am monumentally uninterested.

My mind begins to wander, and I begin to remember my own grandmother’s funeral so many years ago. She died just before I found out I was pregnant with Pre-Pubescent One. Alzheimer’s stole her dignity and her identity. My fastidious grandmother would have welcomed death had she been aware of what she had become. She lost her mind, but her body remained stout and strong. Nanny’s body had withered and weakened until it simply gave out, but she retained her sanity and her self until the end. Which is a crueler fate? I, with my fear of growing old, am equally horrified by both.

My grandmother’s funeral was presided over by a minister who had known her only after she became ill. Her name was Vernelda, but everyone knew her as Nell. The minister called her Nelly, and every time he spoke it, I seethed with an irrational anger. I was also angry about her lipstick. My grandmother always wore lipstick of the truest red. I think she wore the same shade my entire life. But for the viewing they had painted her lips a soft, pearlescent pink. It was wrong. When I complained to my mother about it, she understood, and said that she would take care of it if I really wanted her to. “But, honey…” she gently explained, “You have to remember that red lipstick on a corpse can look a little gruesome.” She was right, and the pink lipstick remained. Since then, I have wondered what shade it was that she loved so much. I would like to have some.

Something brings me out of my reverie. Something has changed in the air. There is…expectation and it is electric. I look around, wondering what I missed and why it seems as if everyone is holding their breath.

I realize that the timbre of Brother Dwight’s voice has changed. Before, it was as deeply soothing as  a wooly blanket on a cold winter’s day. But now…it has risen an octave, and there is an edge to it that I don’t quite understand, until I realize that he has adopted that strange and comical cadence that I always thought of as the hallmark of disingenuous piety and profitable conviction.

“Dearest brethren-a. We are gathered here on this fine day-a, to honor this woman-a. She was a strong woman-a. A good woman-a. But most of all, she was a GOOOOOOOOOOOOODly woman-a.”

The exclamations started anew.

“Yes Lord. PRAISE Jesus!”

“AMEN Brother!”

The spotlight was making sweat pop out on Brother Walrus’s brow, and his postulations were causing a deep red flush that spread from the flesh overflowing his collar to the very roots of his slightly thinning hair. He mopped his brow and continued.

“But although we are saying good-bye-uh…we will not MOUUUUUURN for this woman-a. We will rejoice that she is with her father in heaven-uh. We will rejoice that she has gone home to GLORY-UH!”

The chorus of hallelujahs grows more fervent. Some people leap to their feet and sway to and fro with heads bowed and arms raised. Others clap. Some jangle up and down on the balls of their feet.

“You all know how much salvation meant to Mother-ah. You know how she longed to be called to serve in his heavenly kingdom-ah. You know she is sitting at his right hand-ah. Do not weep for her-ah, for she weeps for you-ah! She weeps to think the souls of her loved ones have not been committed to the Lord-ah.”

Oh, here it comes, I think to myself. He is going to fish for souls at a funeral. I am incensed. The boys perhaps feel me tense in the pew, for I sense both of their heads swiveling in my direction and I feel the question marks in their eyes. I look around, but nobody else seems similarly affronted. In fact, they are beaming and…expectant.

“I am going to invite anyone…anyone here-ah, who has not taken the Lord as their savior-ah, to come forward right now-ah. Speak the words-uh, and commit your soul to JEE-zuSS! Come now…and let the Lord into your heart-uh! ”

I raise my eyes from my lap to find Brother Walrus looking straight into me. His eyes are alight with a righteous fire, and they seem to burn clean through me, searing my heart, stealing my breathe. I have the distinct feeling that the pew behind me is smoldering and wisps of smoke rising from twin char marks. I raise my chin in defiance and hold his gaze, though I am trembling with an emotion I can’t name. I fear it is guilt. I fear it is fear. I manage to maintain eye contact, but I can’t suppress the shiver that runs cold fingers up my spine. I see him see it.

Suddenly, Brother Walrus’s eyes are torn from mine by a shout from the back of the church and the sound of heavy footsteps. A large man with a grey brush cut and thick glasses lumbers up the aisle, calling out.

“Yes Jesus!! I am here Lord! Take me to your bosom Lord! Wash away my sins!”

He prostrates himself at the foot of the podium behind which Brother Walrus stands. His forehead is touching the rough carpet and his large, soft buttocks are all that can be seen of him from where I sit. But I can hear him sobbing and begging for forgiveness.

I hear a whisper from the pew directly behind me. It’s the woman who had smiled kindly to my boys when we sat down, murmuring to her husband. “I thought Duane Sprague was already saved?”

Her companion grunts. “He is. The damned fool just likes making a spectacle of hisself. Gets saved every hodanged time he sets foot in a church.”

She tut-tutted in dismay, but otherwise said nothing.

I want to laugh. I wanted to leave. I want to demand that Brother Walrus explain to me why I should let his Lord into my heart. I want to ask him how his God can punish the good and reward the bad. I want to ask him how his God can let ugliness like child abuse, poverty, war and famine blight the beauty of the world he has created. I want to ask him why I should worship a God who discriminates. Why I should worship a God who puts conditions on his love, and holds salvation hostage.

But I merely sit and watch the drama unfolding. Again, I am stunned. Duane Sprague wails loudly and dramatically. He says he is not worthy, and Brother Walrus wearily assures him that all he has to do is ask and forgiveness shall be his. Duane Sprague wails some more. Diminutive One puts a hand in mine and rests his warm and sticky cheek against my arm. He looks up at me with his enormous blue eyes and says in a stage whisper, “Mom…I thought you said we had to be quiet in church.”

The lady behind me makes a small sound of amusement, and her husband chuckles outright.

The tension is broken, but I still I feel a little as if I am sitting in the pew naked. I feel raw and open, like a wound from which the blood still flows. I cross my arms in front of myself and try to remember that Brother Walrus is just a man. He is not my judge and jury. He is not my conscience. He is not my damnation or my salvation.

In the pew occupied by Jerry and his brothers, there is a stir. Jerry has slumped down in the pew and crossed his arms in a posture that is decidedly similar to my own. His brother Harold hovers over him whispering fervently and gesturing emphatically towards the front of the church. It isn’t hard to surmise what kind of emotional blackmail is taking place in that pew. Suddenly, I am profoundly grateful that I am not sitting over there. I wish I could help him.

I notice that my mother in law is angry. Her lips are compressed in a tight line and her shoulders are stiff with outrage. Barbara Jean puts an arm around her unyielding form and whispers to her. Linda Joyce shakes her head emphatically and then begins to weep, crumpling into her sister's lilac bosom. Barbara Jean glares at Duane Sprague with malevolence. He has eclipsed the mourning with his theatrics. It is the height of disrespect, and he will pay for it later in the form of cold shoulders and ignored greetings. People in SmallSoutherTown do not take such transgressions lightly.

Alas, nobody but Duane Sprague comes forward and with a sigh, Brother Walrus concludes the service. I suppose that fishing for souls in a town that already has a goodly number of Christian folks can be a fruitless and unsatisfying endeavor. For a moment, I feel sorry for Brother Walrus. I wonder if he fears coming up short on Judgment Day.

The mourners file past the casket, which, after some discussion, has been re-opened for the service. Some of those who have come to pay their respects are terribly, terribly old, and I wonder what they feel when they look into that casket. One woman, whose back is bowed over a walker, and whose skin is translucent with age, is visibly upset. The tears stream down her face unchecked as she speaks to Brother Walrus. He takes her chin in his large blunt fingers as if she were a small child and speaks to her tenderly. I don’t know and I can’t hear if it is grief or fear that causes her tears. She scares me. I know that sick and slimy fear. The thought of being so close to death and still not being reconciled to the terrible certainty makes me tremble once again.

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