Memorial Service

I just got back from the funeral of a friend's father. I went to support my friend--I didn't really know her father all that well. So during the service I found my thoughts . . . wandering.

In our neighborhood there's a retirement community. My friend's parents lived there. Naturally, the residents are very close, and they all turn out for a funeral. Sometimes it's the only outing they've had in a long while. I've been to quite a few funerals in the six years I've lived here, and it's rather sweet to see the rows of white-haired ladies, all wearing identical polyester blazers, coming out to honor one of their own. They all look basically the same, but as I was watching them today, recognizing each individual from behind despite their similar hairdos and clothing, I realized how much richer my life has been because of them.

One lady confided to me that she plays computer games a lot, because she heard it prevents Alzheimer's. Another has had a stroke, and gets lost if she tries to drive to and from anyplace but WalMart. I can't even imagine what kind of hell that would be. Anyway, this is why I get to drive her Lexus around once in a while. Another calls me up when she needs to change the thread on her sewing machine, since she can't see the needle. She makes an appointment for several days out, so as not to inconvenience me.

One woman has trouble with incontinence. She informed me that sometimes she will need to abruptly leave a conversation in order to go to the bathroom. Another is a talented writer. She has just finished a comprehensive history of our city, even though she is blind.

All these women have touched my life, but today I felt something even deeper for them as I watched them participating in this service. I noticed that there were fewer than ever. In fact, every time there is a funeral, there's one less in the congregation. They hold their programs in their hands and refer to them frequently. I imagine they are making mental notes of what went well and what didn't, so they can advise their own families on how to proceed when it's time. They nod their heads in unison when a speaker says something particularly touching or relevant. They don't cry. I picture them going home and adding the program to an ever-increasing tower of funeral programs, thinking about how they would love to join their husbands, and wondering how long they have left.

It won't be too long, I think. What was once three or four rows has been whittled down to one or two. I miss the lady whose palsy was so bad, she couldn't sign her own name, and used to ask me to write it for her. I miss the woman who always patted the seat next to her for me to sit down and told me I was doing a great job--not like this horrible woman at her daughter's church. I miss the Danish woman with the thick accent, who called me up at all hours of the day or night, shouted "Dalton?" into the phone, and told me to turn on the TV and watch whatever she was watching. Sometimes I miss them so much it brings tears to my eyes.

And what is it (besides a lot of laughs) that has made me a better person for knowing these beautiful people? For one, these women have endured. Some of them have been widows for a very long time, and yet they don't complain. They smile and chat, and go on with their lives, trying to ease the burdens of others, even through their personal lonliness. They have learned that that kind of attitude actually eases their own burdens.

They are not afraid to ask for help. They know they can't do everything they could when they are younger, and they're sometimes embarrassed about that, or feel frustrated. But when a hand is extended, they take it graciously, with thanks. And sometimes they will bring a two-liter bottle of Sprite over at Christmastime.

For the most part, they have retained a sense of humor. Their joints ache, their hearts ache, and their bladders won't be controlled, but they still know how to laugh and make jokes. They aren't cranky and irritable. They don't succumb to bitterness.

They are faithful. They love the Lord. They know they'll be with their husbands again someday. They study their large-print scriptures. They pray, even when it's impossible to get on their knees. They know they are daughters of God.

They love me, and make me feel wonderful about myself. When I would stand up to teach a lesson at church, I could hear this whispering (as in the whispering of one hard-of-hearing individual to another, which really isn't whispering at all) going through the back row: She's such a neat lady . . . oh, I just love her . . .

I'm not sure what inspired this devotion, but I can tell you that it has bonded me to them, and has made me devoted to serving them and learning from them--for as long as they are around. And when they're gone, I'll remember them, and try to develop those qualities, so that when it's my turn, some younger woman will want to drive me around, and thread my sewing machine, and watch TV with me, and I will make her laugh.