The Silent Witness of a Filled Sanctuary

I am tempted to conclude that . . . to believe that . . . always and ever . . .

Love begets love . . . but not always
Kindness given is kindness returned . . . but not always

And yet, and still, every now and then, we humans get it, like the proverbial Three Bears, just right.  And when we do, it is whelming and overwhelming.

One of those every now and then deeds is the act of showing up.  That’s it – showing up. . . being there . . . what we preacherly people like to refer to as the ministry of presence . . . and sometimes, that’s all about being a face in the crowd, for sometimes, it is the crowd that is the whelming thing . . . the silent witnesses to one’s grief and pain and joy and remembering . . . as in a funeral . . .

Last night was one of those times when love begot love and kindness kindness . . . and the husband who was saying his faith farewells to his dear companion beheld the crowd and pronounced himself overwhelmed . . .

The next day, I am struck by so many I know who eschew things like funerals because . . . why?  Because they are so hard?  Perhaps.  So final?  Surely.  So sad?  Definitely.

But sometimes, we’re called to do the hard, the final, the sad thing . . . sometimes it isn’t about us at all.  Sometimes it’s just about being another face in the crowd of surrounding love.

So the next time you dither, not wanting to go, you might think about that and you might go . . . go because you need to . . . go because you want to . . . and even when you don’t want to, go, because your presence matters to those most heart-struck in their loss . . . your presence will whelm them . . . and that is a good thing.

Where I Live 4.0

Where I live, our local Supervisor and furniture refinisher has a lamb in his shop window this morning.  I can hear her bleating for attention across the court house lawn.  And everyone at the table later will understand – she needed feeding and no one would be home enough that day to do it, so he brought her along.  It’s just what you do.

Where I live, Mark and the guys change my oil and fill ‘er up while talking about how much we raised at the latest dinner/fundraiser – this time for Emergency Shelter funds for the needy.  (Mark is the county’s go-to guy for putting together a great dinner for hundreds at the drop of the proverbial hat.)

Where I live, death is as practical as life, so we all stop on our way to or from the funeral at the Dollar General to pick up our sundries and think it no disrespect – Guy would have done the same, after all.

Where I live, Deb will follow me to the gas station to drop off the car and drive me back the ½ block to Evelyn’s for our meeting just because she knows I hate to walk in the cold.

Where I live, I catch up with friends sitting in their warm car in the church parking lot after catching them doing a drop off for tomorrow.  That’s visiting and none of us will think it odd that I don’t invite and they don’t expect to come in – we’re both kind of busy just now, but want to catch up, so car visit it is.

Where I live, many of the folks at Guy’s funeral will come up to ask me how my mother’s doing after her car wreck, because they’ve all been praying for her and genuinely want to know.

Where I live, people will tell you if it was a good funeral or not and why, because where I live, folks have lots of practice at funerals and we all know the difference between a good one and a bad one and good send-offs matter.

Where I live, lucky is scooting back across Jack Mountain into the lower highlands just in time to beat the ice and snow and we’re all happy for all the luck we get.

Where I live, a preacher of one church will borrow a congregant from another for some special service or event, because we’re just too small to think it strange to do so.

Where I live, the extraordinary blends in with the ordinary, wearing the camouflage of this thing we call life, sliding by so quietly we almost don’t even notice – almost.

Running to the Kitchen

I used to hate the kitchen.  And I do mean hate.  My mother swears (although I do not remember it this way) that I broke dishes on purpose to avoid having to wash them.  As a teenager I got so frustrated one day trying to peel potatoes that I threw a potato across the kitchen*, tears streaming, just as my Dad came home.  To say he was not pleased is an understatement.  Even now, bread is not something I will attempt – it’s just too much time to spend only to throw away the leaden lump of inedible wheat-gone-bad I inevitably end up with.

And family gatherings drove me nuts as a teenage girl and young woman – after the meal, all the men sat down to the tv and football while all the women went to the kitchen.  Feminist me railed against the injustice, to no avail, as all in my family, women and men alike, just smiled indulgently at my protests and went back to their assigned roles.

But feeding people, I found, is its own joy.  So slowly I learned to cook.  I am a recipe cook, lacking the palate and imagination to venture off on my own very often; what I can do is follow instructions.

Thus have I found my joy in the kitchen, especially this time of year when I bake and create a whole host of goodies for family and friends.  But what I am really seeking in the kitchen is the company of saints.

Yesterday was the funeral for Bill Puffenbarger.  Bill lived to 88 and died much as he lived: quietly at home.  It was a good funeral: well-attended by family and friends, a sunny, although cold day for the interment of his body at Headwaters cemetery, and a good meal after put on by the ladies of the McDowell Volunteer Fire Department.

After the service at the cemetery, I scurried the 6 miles back over 2 mountains to the Fire Hall and helped as I could with the kitchen crew.  It’s not expected of me as the minister.  And most times I simply stick my head in and say a hearty thank you.  But this day I wanted to be with the kitchen ladies.  It was like I was running to them – my own safe haven now in the kitchen I used to hate so much.

Things have changed a little in the kitchens I frequent  – now you’ll find a few of the fellows helping out.  I am a much better cook than I used to be.  And as a grown woman, I know my limits, so I don’t peel the potatoes (trust me, no one needs that kind of grief).

Funerals cry out for life affirming action.  That’s why, I think, we so often gather to eat after.  Eating a meal is an activity of the living – it is life giving as well as life sustaining.

But for me, the funeral meal is a time and place where I can sneak back into the kitchen and hang with the ladies, carrying out the rhythms of millennia.

When I was young, if someone would say to me that I belonged in the kitchen, I would bristle with insult.  Now I just smile and say, “thank you.”  For truer words, perhaps, have not been spoke: in the kitchen, I belong.





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*A leftie with few, if any, motor skills, should really not be left alone with sharp instruments – it really is a right-handed world.

When Shirley Died

More than twenty years ago, and more than ten years after the fact, I wrote about the death of my grandfather, Shirley Francis Pyles.  It was written at a time when his wife, my Grandma Mary still lived and I was far from being a grandmother myself.  As I look back, I realize I have for some years lived longer without Grandpa than with him.  It is a startling revelation.  For some time, a family is gathered around the bed of their dying mother, grandmother and great-grandmother, Edna Mae.  Ministering to them and coming across what I wrote back then makes me think on my own times of loss, of family gathered around a bedside.

When Shirley Died

How well I still remember Grandpa’s dying, much more than his funeral.  What a time.  Grandpa died slowly and held on to each struggling breath even at the last.  I know because I was there.  We all were: a family sleeping in hospital chairs, I on the floor outside his room.

Looking back, I’m not even sure why I was there; but at the time, I knew it was important.  Not to Grandpa – he was asleep.  That’s how I think of it, anyway.  But to Grandma and my dad, there was no question of where I would be, so there I was.

How startled I was at his funeral.  The casket was open.  The service was comforting to some, not to others, as those things always seem to go.  But at the end, it suddenly occurred to me as I saw the men from the funeral home striding up the church aisle, that the casket lid would be closed on Grandpa as we sat there and watched.  

Up to that moment in my life, I thought I was strong.  In that instant as the lid came down, however, I wanted to scream, to run, to cry out, "No!"  But I was Grandma’s girl.  I said nothing, did nothing, allowing only the pressure of my fingertips in Mom’s arm to give me away – our little secret.

Whether time brings wisdom or not, I do not know.  But I do know that I can look back and understand that Grandma needed to see the lid close, needed the finality of that good-bye.  The more I think on it, the more I think we all need such simple and final good-byes in our lives.

Every time I leave Grandma’s house, she stands at the porch, the inevitable dish rag in hand, and waves good-bye.  Even after she’s gone, that’s how I will always see her.  And as I watch the next generation grow, I picture myself as somebody’s grandma.  I wonder if my granddaughter will pause and watch me standing on the porch and waving goodbye.*


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*I have become the grandmother I imagined I would someday be.  It is a grandson, beautiful Rowen, who sees me waving now and I wonder if somehow, he sees the shadow behind me of my grandmother waving us all on.  I know I do.

Top 5 Reasons You Can’t Come to My Funeral

5. Anyone from Cumnock, Scotland – you wouldn’t take a chance on me as a student minister cos I’m a girl – really?  Because some gal before me hadn’t been such great shakes, suddenly all women are suspect?  Really?  A coal town wouldn't take a chance on a gal from West Virginia?  Really?  Well, it did work out for the best, both for you and for me, so I guess you can come if you want to, but why would you?  We never even met, did we?

4. Anyone who has somewhere more important to be.  No hard feelings, but if you don’t have the time – if you start looking at your watch beyond a certain point – just give it a miss – we’ll both be happier for it.

3. Anyone who doesn’t know that you bring food to my family and friends as an expression of sorrow or regret and caring for the living.  It’s bad form not to bring food, so if you can’t be bothered with the obligatory (and it is obligatory) home-made casserole dish, you’d better skip the funeral (unless you’re coming from more than 100 miles away - a rough rule of thumb, but it’ll do).

2. If you don’t know me well enough to know my kids’ names, don’t come.

1. If you can’t laugh at all the silliness of my life, stay home - this funeral isn’t for you.

And a special shout-out to Milan Cikovich, who stands in a category all his own – because at age 7, Milan told me there is no Santa Clause and I’ve never gotten over it – those childhood wounds run deep.  But the Easter Bunny’s real, isn’t he, Milan?  Milan?

All kidding aside, in the pastor business, we spend a fair amount of time dealing with the dying and their vision of how the send-off should be, which includes more often than you might think, a list of who is and who is not, welcome to come.

One thing I’m pretty clear on at this point in my life: when I’m dead, the yardstick by which I measure such things will have changed pretty dramatically and what seems important to me now will not matter even a little bit then.

So when it comes to my own funeral, I too have a vision, but that’s all it is.  And my whims are not to be given sway.  When it comes to my own funeral, to those who will be in charge, do what you like.  Don’t worry about me – I’ll be busy somewhere else.

And yes, Milan can come if he wants to.