Spring Funeral

We woke up early and put on our dress pants. I borrowed a thermos from my parents pantry and poured in an extra cup of coffee with some half and half. Driving east in the middle of an Iowa March is a flat experience. The land goes on for miles in every direction, with empty fields awaiting their spring assignments. It is the brownest time of year. Even still, I find myself wanting to video record the predictable pattern (farm, field, farm, field, farm) out my window. There is something comforting about it.

When we reach the funeral home we can see that the parking lot is already full of cars. The sun is reflecting brightly off the shiny roofs, where purple magnet flags bearing the word "funeral" have been placed for the procession to the cemetery. There are so many people in the main room that we are ushered into a side room with tv monitors showing a live feed of what is happening on the other side of the wall. We are mostly staring at our shoes and even the smallest kids know this is not a time for joking or running around. A toddler sneezes and breaks the tension. The way people come from all over to be together in grief is something to behold. Not anything like consolation, but beautiful all the same.

My uncle, who is the pastor leading this service, reminds us of what he calls the "two rails".  He tells us he used to see life as a series of peaks and valleys, but not anymore. It is more like parallel rails running inextricably next to each other every day on earth. Life's good things on one side, life's loss and pain on the other. This is a paradox he knows well, having buried his son and 2 grandkids on the same day 8 years ago. As he talks, we listen. We trust him.

The burial plot they have chosen is right next to a wooded area with a nearby bench overlooking a ravine. We comment on how perfect this spot is, how beautiful, how fitting. We are giving thanks for the small goodnesses, trying to find things to say to each other that won't topple us back into tears.

There is a pain center to funerals. The immediate family, the significant others, the best friends. They are thrust into an overwhelming grief, a dark pool at the bottom of a well. You can see the difference between those in the center and those just outside of the center. One is trying so hard to do and say the right thing. The other has no trying left in them, they are on auto pilot, dependent on their body to do what their heart cannot. Keep going. There is much about this day that they will not remember and I keep that in mind when I hug my cousin who has just buried her 21 year old son. I say nothing at first. Then I find myself, like those of us on the outside of the center tend to do, trying to say something. Anything. To divert the pain. To comfort. These efforts are futile and I know this.

After the burial we gather at a local restaurant for lunch. We drink our coffee in styrofoam cups and talk about what a gift it was to have such a beautiful day in March. The perspective given to those standing outside of the pain center is something like a gift. It is similar to what weddings can be to already married people, a reminder of the vows you took years earlier. Funerals are a reminder of the very breath we are breathing. Of the hands we can still hold, the lips we can still kiss. We will go home and settle back in to our lives. Sober, sad, and refocused on what matters. Those at the center will never go back. Their lives will not ever be the same again and there is nothing anyone can do to make it feel better.

I am thinking about this as I fly back home, staring at the soybeans until the mountains rise out of the brown ground into white peaks. I think about this as I walk back into my warm house and smell the fried rice my daughter made earlier for dinner. I think about this as I kiss my kids goodnight and settle into bed next to my husband.

The first tulips have started to emerge from my garden, like little prophets, despite the forecast which calls for another 10 days of rain and cold. The light is widening, they seem to tell us. Soon it will be the spring equinox: a day of equal dark and equal light. Two rails. Always.

Photo: A spring crocus in my moms garden