After the Funeral

The death of a close family member changes things.  Whether your beliefs are shaken or strengthened, you look at things a little differently after the funeral.  On our way to piano lessons this afternoon, we stopped at a red light.  Outside the church on the corner across from us, a hearse waited as mourners filed into the sanctuary.  In the time of a sigh, I thought of the joy the deceased must have brought to those who knew him or her, of the intense sorrow those left behind felt in the present, and of the struggles they will face as they adjust to life without their loved one.  I ached for these strangers, knowing too well the course of grief.

My daughter, however, had a different perspective.

"Mama!  Mama!  Look what I found!" she shouted excitedly, pointing out the window in the direction of the long black car.

"A hearse?  A funeral car?" I asked.

"Yes!  Is there a dead person in it?" 

"Maybe, but probably not.  I think the car is waiting till the funeral is over."

"Is it OUR funeral?"

"No, honey... (Mommy cringes inwardly)... and I'm hoping we don't have any more funerals anytime soon."

"Because only dead people have funerals?"

"Yes, and I want all of us to live a very long time."

"Grandpa looked like a doll at his funeral." (An observation she borrowed from her older brother).

"Yes, he kind of did look like a doll..."

I had worried about taking the children to my father's viewing, and indeed, Elisabeth had been quite upset by her initial view of Grandpa - of the running out of the funeral home and refusing to go back in variety.  By the end of the three hour viewing, however, she was walking around the funeral home chapel as nonchalantly as a vivacious four-year-old girl is prone to walk.

She's resilient.  Initially shocked, she recovered.  She remembered how to walk - not timidly, not clinging to Mommy's skirt, but smiling, looking up, chatting with whoever would listen.  Now she reflects upon death not with the horror she felt at first, but with fearless curiosity, perhaps understanding in her childish mind more than we understand in our adult minds.  When she speaks of Grandpa being in Heaven, her blue eyes light up and practically fall out of her head they're so big...

"There's a big slide!  And TOYS!"

Oh, I know. Her doctrine of Heaven may not be entirely sound, (although she may not be as far off as the more mature among us believe).  Yes, there's a lot she can't possibly understand, and if she lost someone closer to her - she rarely saw my father - it would be much more difficult for her to process.  I don't deny any of that, nor do I pretend that her young soul has a firm grasp of matters of life and loss.

Still, there's something beautiful in the view from her precious, wondering eyes...