When my grandmother died, I was in law school.
And I was busy: My first trial (really an administrative hearing) was scheduled for the following week. I had to make a decision about whether to stay at school and file the necessary court briefs on time — or else go to the funeral and file late. I decided to file late. This was not the ideal way to represent my client. But I had the blessing of my clinic instructor because of the circumstances. And of course I had everyone’s sympathy too.
I was a bit uncertain about attending the funeral. It would be the first family funeral I would attend as an adult; most of my elderly family members, on both sides, are absurdly durable. I didn’t really know how to conduct myself in the wake of a family death. Would there be sadness? Grief? Awkwardness and discomfort? Duties I would fail to understand? Long-suppressed bitternesses boiling to the surface?
But for starters, at least, there was a twelve-hour drive right across the Eastern seaboard, to my grandmother’s small Appalachian hometown. And this was completely fine with me. I enjoy long-distance driving. I’d been missing it lately, during my studies. And I liked having an empty chunk of time dedicated to nothing more than listening to music and thinking occasional thoughts that weren’t related to law school.
While driving, I tried to figure out how I felt about my grandmother’s passing. My personal feelings about death and dying are often hard to explain to others. I don’t always consider death to be a saddening development. In many cases I find there’s some value in looking at it a bit differently: as a release, perhaps, or as a long-awaited passage to another world.
I concluded that at the very least, I would not be the most grief-stricken person at this event. My grandmother was 97 years old upon her passing. She had been a widow for more than three decades — years she had spent traveling the world for as long as she was physically able. She also seized every possible opportunity to attend the local Presbyterian church, often three or four times per week (when someone was available to chauffeur her). She’d had a full life. Her passing was preceded by a long, slow, and not especially painful decline in her health. Everyone had had plenty of time to prepare for the event, her included. I suspect she viewed her inevitable passing as a chance to visit with her Savior every day, instead of just a few times per week.
When I arrived in town, I was ready to confront a wave of sadness. I’d been thoroughly prepared for this by my fellow students at the law clinic — all women, as it happened — who constantly offered me words of sympathy and also expressions of platonic affection, including many supportive hugs. So when I arrived, I was ready for — well, I don’t know what, exactly. Scenes.
But there turned out to be no scenes the entire weekend. There was no weeping, no dourness — practically no glumness at all. Setting aside my own outlook, this was all completely unexpected to me.
What there were, first of all, were family gatherings. In my grandmother’s home. This was pretty exceptional, for my clan. My brother managed to fly in at the last minute from the West Coast — so that was a nice bonus right away. And more notably, I made the acquaintance of my cousins from Oklahoma — whom I hadn’t seen in twenty-five years, since we were all very young children. This was my first opportunity to get to know my cousins as adults. And contrary to all the family myths and rumors that had swirled around them while they were stuck out there in the Sooner State — I found that I kind of liked them. We got on pretty well for people who had last seen each other back when none of us was allowed to cross the street without an adult.
Second, there was food. My goodness, was there ever an extensive assortment of victuals on offer here. I’m not sure where it all came from, or why people were sending deli plates and such to an address with no surviving inhabitants — but the sustenance was nevertheless greatly appreciated, especially by those of us who were staying in a nearby (kitchenless) motel. This was in addition to all the group dinners my family went out to. Plus the swell luncheon put on by the Presbyterian church’s ladies auxiliary — complete strangers to us, every last one of them — who welcomed us out-of-towners with a completely unexpected yet totally relaxed social event and who plied us with so, so many delicious finger sandwiches.
Also there were people behaving with absolutely impeccable, almost unbelievably solicitous manners. The memorial service in the funeral home’s chapel was lightly attended; my grandmother had simply outlived all her peers. But I did wind up meeting several former students of hers who’d made a point of dropping by. These were people who’d been my grandmother’s students when she was still teaching — forty years ago. So of course these folks were all considerably older than I was. But they still treated me with an odd kind of deference, as they graciously recalled my grandmother’s care and concern for them as young people.
And then there was the Presbyterian minister. I considered his task kind of hopeless, trying to add grandeur to this decidedly modest occasion. Plus I didn’t expect to listen to him very closely, since church services rarely grab my attention. But as the local Scotch-Irish churchman, he actually saw my grandmother much more frequently in recent years than any of us family members did. And he managed to speak movingly yet briefly on the only subject available: my grandmother’s long devotion to the church, which surely predated his own arrival at that congregation by decades.
And finally, there was the burial. We drove in procession out of the town and stopped at a tiny rural churchyard with a newly-excavated grave. Even this part of the weekend lacked any real gloom. In fact it seemed to me like a pretty wonderful afternoon to be laid to rest on a hilltop in the countryside. The sky was dramatic, darkly cloudy in parts and brilliantly sunny in others. A brisk autumn breeze filtered up from the valley below. The scene was mostly quiet, but the hushed voices of our party were occasionally drowned out by typical country sounds: Grass mowers in the distance, birds chirping overhead, a single car racketing past on the gravel road. The burial ceremony wrapped up quickly — even more quickly than the memorial service had.
Not every task associated with this event went smoothly. Certain assets of my grandmother’s estate were difficult to distribute. Not everyone agreed on every joint decision. But for the purpose of getting through the weekend, every major step turned out to be brilliantly easy. A delight, even. My family had managed to spend a long weekend solving many complex problems without a hint of drama. I’d made several new acquaintances under subdued but pleasant circumstances, including long-lost cousins of mine. I had one last chance to explore my grandmother’s house at my leisure, along with all the childhood memories I associated with it. And I got to hang out with my brother, who lives on the opposite coast and whom I don’t get to see very often.
Afterward, all that was left for me was to drop my brother at the airport and then drive the twelve hours back home. Upon returning to school I filed my briefs, presented my client’s case, and won the hearing. At the law clinic, my colleagues approached me gingerly and tried to gauge my mood, asking the only conceivable question: “How was the funeral?” And in response, all I could do was smile broadly and say: “It was fantastic!”
This was not the answer my fellow students were expecting, of course. But how do you convince people that you went to a funeral — and had a great time? I still don’t really know the answer to that question.
Photo by user “Carol Browne” via Flickr.
