You learn a lot from attending funerals, especially those that bring you back to where you grew up and in my case, to the church I attended as a child. It was not the same building, typical of the thousands of small-town country churches from my youth. Several years ago, three protestant churches in the area combined in order to survive, and built one large modern, structure with a view of Bald Mountain, the tallest peak in the area, and the farms in the valley below.
A number of mostly relatives greeted me with hugs and handshakes. A favorite cousin saved seats for my husband and me. I recognized a good number of older folks like myself and many others of all ages, some of whom I knew. The church was packed. Two screens in front scrolled photos of my Aunt Wilma’s life. You might say, her life of family and friends over nine decades. Sadly, she was the last of her generation: all my aunts and uncles and my parents.
Although I became a Catholic when I married, this church felt like home. The service consisted of many familiar hymns with words projected on the screens interspersed with short Bible passages, several eulogies by friends and family, and a short sermon, unlike the structure I remembered that was much like the Liturgy of the Word at my Catholic parish. The hymns were the same, the message of eternal life, etc.
The repast afterward, with home-cooked food, meeting people from ‘up home’ including my cousin Howard, who coined the term, the desire to stay there, and talk, was an experience for reflection. One of the last people I spoke with was Johnny, the younger brother of my cousin, who saved seats for us. I didn’t get to know him because I left home after college. He looked a lot like his mom, my aunt. As we parted he said, “Don’t forget where you came from.” He lives in New Mexico now.
DJ Pasternak, Author 