More funeral thoughts

Attending a recent funeral made me think of my uncle’s funeral nearly 2 years ago.

Ricky was, for lack of a better term, a rounder. From dictionary.com, a rounder is described as: “a dissolute person, usually a man who is morally unrestrained.” Yeah, that was my uncle. He lived his life for him. He didn’t love anyone or anything more than himself, except possibly, cocaine. His pall-bearers wore NASCAR shirts. I may have been the only person, other than the funeral directors, who wore a tie. They played some odd songs, ending with one about “I’m the last rebel; I'm a loner; Nobody loves or understands me” or something to that effect. It was surreal that even in death, he tried to play the victim role. He wanted sympathy and attention, even in the plans he laid out for his own funeral.

I hadn’t talked to him for a number of years before he killed himself. Ricky did call a family member on Easter Sunday a year before he died. He told the family member that he was in the final stage of cancer and was about to die. By all accounts, that was a lie. My guess is, based on his history, that it was a ploy to get sympathy or money. A long-time friend of his found what ultimately was his suicide note, his goodbye to the world. Tim loved Ricky like a brother, despite all the mess he had to go through to remain friends. Tim told me about the note...and that while it didn't expressly say he was going to kill himself, it eluded to that fact. It wasn’t a traditional suicide…no overdose or gunshot. He drove into an 18-wheeler at a high rate of speed, probably drunk or high, and got decapitated. That ended a life full of opportunities missed.

At his “visitation” and funeral, I saw some family members I’d not seen since my grandmother’s funeral in ’97. Attending were a great aunt (the “matriarch” of the family), a great uncle (the spitting image of my grandfather), and a host of 2nd cousins and their spouses. There were a number of stories being told, most I’d heard before. I found it funny how time changes a person’s memory though. Some of the stories being told, I’d actually witnessed. Other stories, I’d heard from my mom, my grandmother, or Ricky himself.

My great aunt, sister to my grandfather, was telling versions of stories I’d never heard before. Oh, I’d heard the stories…just not her version of them. She told everyone how my grandmother “never wanted Ricky.” I, of course, hold a different view of reality. My grandmother had a difficult pregnancy with my mother. Difficult pregnancies in 1950 weren’t anything to take lightly. My grandmother was not excited when she found out she was pregnant again 3 years later. That, all these years later, turned into her not wanting him.

My aunt also said Ricky was mistreated, abused, and never loved. This could not be further from the truth. Ricky was a problem from the time he was very young. His wild nature could not be controlled, no matter what my grandparents tried. He stayed in trouble all throughout his childhood. I suppose my grandparents’ inability to control him fueled the “mistreated” view. As far as abuse is concerned, I heard the story she referred to from my mom, my grandmother, and Ricky himself. When he was 14 or 15, he took a loaded gun to school because he was being picked on. We’re talking about 1967 or ’68. He got caught and was promptly expelled. When my grandfather got home from work, he got the full story and went to confront Ricky, and to find out why it happened. Ricky got defensive and, during the confrontation, hit my grandfather. My grandfather told him that if he tried that again, he’d better be man enough to deal with the consequences. Ricky took another swing and my grandfather “beat the stew out of him” (my grandmother’s words). That was the only time he was ever “abused.”

As far as love goes, I cannot begin to list the ways our family tried to show him love. I can’t count the times my grandmother paid for him to go to rehab. I can’t remember the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th “chances” he got from me alone…much less everyone else. In my grandmother’s will, money was set aside for the express purpose of paying for his funeral. She was wise enough to know that he’d die alone and penniless. She bought him a plot in the cemetery, a casket, and paid for it all. Had he been unloved, she wouldn’t have had the forethought to do that for him. I wanted to ask my aunt whom she thought was paying for that funeral and set her straight, but I kept my mouth shut.

My aunt told a story of my grandmother’s “refusal” to buy him a plane ticket home from California when my mom died. The truth is that she DID buy him a plane ticket. As a matter of fact, I drove her to the travel agency to purchase it. He turned it in for cash and bought drugs with the money. I think he showed us how much he loved my mom with his actions. Again, I kept my mouth shut.

I also wanted to tell other stories…stories that could not paint Ricky as a victim. He chose his life and lived it on his terms. I wanted to remind them that he joined the Navy out of high school to prevent himself from going to jail. I wanted to explain how he spent most of his time in the Navy in the Brig. I wanted to remind them of his 2 failed marriages and 3 children with whom he had no relationship. I thought they needed to know about how he bragged about his $1000 per day cocaine habit in the early 80’s. I wanted to explain to everyone that after he roughed-up my great-grandmother for drug money in the summer of 1991, I went looking for him. If I’d found him that day, we’d have had his funeral many years earlier and I’d have been in jail. I wanted to tell them about his moving back home to “take care of” my grandmother when she was sick with cancer. He hadn’t been back 24 hours when he started taking things out of the house and pawning them or selling them outright for drug money. I wanted them to know that after the settling of my grandmother’s estate, that he sold her car before the ink was dry on his signing the title. He bought cocaine with the money. He was not shy about admitting when he used drugs, and told me regularly. There are many other stories I could have told. Wisely, I kept my mouth shut.

So, what is my point? Am I just bashing my uncle? That is not my intent. I loved Ricky. Until I was old enough to realize what he really was, there was nobody I’d rather have spent time with. This is just my therapy. It’s my way to get things out. My grandparents were good people. They were far from perfect, but they did their best with Ricky. He chose his life. He chose rebellion. He chose self-destruction. There was nothing my grandparents could have done to prevent it. My grandmother prayed for him multiple times every day until she died. He was constantly exposed to the truth. He chose to live in hell when he was alive. A lot of people who loved him were singed by his flames. I hope that somewhere in his life, he got things right with God. I hope that the hell he lived on earth was not a fore-taste of his eternity.

Mother's day thoughts

Today is Mother’s Day. Today, like every other day, I’m thinking about my mom.

She died after a 2 year battle with cancer in 1995. Mom was a sweet lady. She was one of the most human people I ever met. In the last couple of years of her life, she lost her pretense. She realized that so much of her life was wasted on trying to live up to expectations she put on herself. She’d also tended to project other people’s expectations onto her life. Weakness and faults weren’t “supposed” to be shown in the life of a Christian. You had to play the game, and play it well, in order to impress others and maintain status in the church. In those last couple of years, she allowed her insecurities to show. She was self-conscious about her weight. She worried that she was insignificant to those she loved. The week before she died, she told me her greatest fear was that she’d be forgotten after she was gone. She told me how much she regretted that she’d miss meeting my wife, seeing me get married, and getting to hold her grand children. I cannot go a day without looking at my daughters and hating the fact that they’ll never know Grandma Ginger. I can tell them stories, but that’s 2nd hand knowledge. It’s not good enough for me. Sometimes, I get frustrated about it. I still don’t understand why God had to take her at only 45. It doesn’t seem fair to me, but I am projecting my limited view of fairness onto God…and that’s just wrong. He knows what He is doing, always. I have to trust in that.

I miss my mom. I still, nearly 13 years after her death, cry for her from time to time. Ok, so maybe I cry for me missing her. I think about my girls not having her love showered on them. I think about my nieces and nephew never knowing her and it makes me sad. I think of how my sisters have had to grow into womanhood with out her influence, since they were 18 and 15 when she died.

These last 13 years have been long without Mom being around. Every day, I look forward to seeing her again in Heaven.

A few years ago, John Tesh cut a song with Dalia singing lead called “Mother, I Miss You.” The chorus expresses how I feel more eloquently than I could begin to say it.

“Mother I miss you. Nights I just wish you were here with me so we can laugh and talk again. Mother I miss you, but I’ll just kiss you and send it on the wind. ‘Cause you know I plan to see you again.”

Also, it was on Mother's day 2 years ago that we brought Kaylee home from her stint in the NICU. She was so tiny.

This week

I went to a funeral earlier this week. The wife of a friend/co-worker was killed in a car accident. She was only 39 with 2 teen-age children and 1 grandchild. The tragedy of the situation of someone dying so young was tremendous. My friend truly married his best friend and he is beyond distraught. Just seeing the physical toll on him was heartbreaking, the emotional scars not-withstanding.

They live in a small town; a close-knit community. There were many family members at the funeral, along with a good number of friends and acquaintances. I believe my friend will ultimately be ok because his family and friends have truly rallied around him. They will give him the support he needs. They will encourage him. They will also kick him in the rear when he needs it.

They played a number of country songs, including “This One’s For the Girls” and “I Hope You Dance.” One of her sisters came up and read the obituary straight out of the newspaper. Then, the minister stepped to the podium. He explained that he was from a Baptist church in the small town where she grew up. He mentioned that he hadn’t seen her in nearly 20 years, but he remembered her as a “vibrant child and teen, very full of life.” He then went on to talk about the person she’d become (from her sisters’ descriptions); how she tried to encourage people to take advantage of the moment, and how she wanted people to get the most out of life. He didn’t say much about her beyond that, but he didn’t really know her. I mean, at her own funeral, the person who said the most, didn’t even know her. He couldn’t reflect on personal memories to even give people a good word-picture of whom she really was. I’d never met my friend’s wife, and even at her funeral, I could not learn anything substantial about her. That made me sad. I know, of course, some things I’d picked up from my friend, but even those things weren’t really of any substance. After nearly 40 years of life, nobody stood to say anything on her behalf. The preacher did his best to encourage the family to band together and take care of each other. He read from the “standard” funeral Biblical passages (John 14:1-3 & Ecclesiastes 3:1-8). He talked briefly about God’s love, His comfort, and how He will never leave or forsake us. It was an impossible position for him: to eulogize someone with whom he had no relationship. I felt bad for the preacher…but that’s not the point, and I digress, as I am prone to do.

In reality, I wasn’t there for her. I was there to support my friend. I was there out of respect for his pain and heartache. I wasn’t there because she meant anything to me personally. Again, I’d never met her.

In my 35 years, I’ve been to a lot of funerals. Most were somber affairs, while others included wailing and screaming. A couple of them were truly “going home” celebrations where God’s presence was tangible; where hearts and lives were changed.

The funeral of my friend’s wife was one of the saddest I’ve attended. It begged the question in me: “What are people going to say at your funeral?” That led to another question: “What do you want people to remember about your funeral?”

The 2nd question is a little more difficult. It comes from the fact that years from now, I doubt I’ll remember much about my friend’s wife’s funeral other than the music, the fact that nobody from her family stood up and said anything about her, and the overwhelming sense of hopelessness in that small funeral home chapel. When the last song played for your memory is “Free Bird”, what does that really say?

This is not a cultural issue. It is not an issue of education or ignorance. I think it is totally about a spiritual vacuum. I am not trying to judge a dead woman’s life…because I never met her. I have nothing but a funeral to use for a basis for judgment, and that is not fair. It’s not a spiritual indictment of her, my friend, or their family and friends.

Ultimately, it made me more sad and amplified the tragedy of the entire situation.