Sorry for your loss

I moved ahead two small steps. The long line of mourners wormed its way across and then back to the front doors of the church. The line was moving, but progress was slow. Last summer, I stood with fifty to sixty other people in line in an old church. I was at a funeral to pay my respects to a good friend and former coworker. He had lost his father to a long battle with cancer.

Tables with pictures of happier times and flowers lined the aisles. To keep myself busy, I focused on a large mural of Jesus Christ on the wall. He was surrounded by sheep and was holding a small lamb over his shoulders. With his other hand, he reached out as if requesting others to join him.

A large truck rumbled outside and brought me back to the present. I worried about what I should say when I greeted my friend and his family. I’ve never been great in these circumstances. I want to say something that eases the mourning family member’s burden. I know deep in my heart that nothing can erase that pain. Still, I feel the obligation to try.

Um, what to say?

We were getting closer to the front of the line. I wished my wife was with me. She always knows what to say to people. I prayed for her kind, loving words. In my head, I analyzed each possible comment or expression that I might offer. They each had their positives and negatives:

—“My condolences.” It’s such a simple statement. However, I always worry that it doesn’t sound heartfelt. What does condolences even mean? It’s like something a doctor would prescribe. “Take two condolences, get a good night’s sleep, and call me in the morning.” Ugh.

—“Sorry for your loss.” It’s usually my fallback comment, but what comes next? How do you follow that up? I’m expressing sadness and that’s fine, but, what am I really apologizing for? “Oh, I’m sorry for not being a miracle worker and not saving your loved one from this horrible disease.” Double Ugh.

—“You’re in my thoughts and prayers.” The words have deep meaning to me, but I struggle to say them. Here’s my issue. Politicians have bastardized the meaning of the words. They say something similar after every shooting or tragedy that strikes the world. I get this image of some blowhard politician getting in front of the media and saying the same thing. I hate the idea of being like them.

Oh, I’m sorry for being super-critical about such a sensitive topic. These are just the crazy thoughts that race through my head. Of course, when I reached the front of the line, I merged everything into a rambling mess. Fortunately my friend heard about a third of what I said. He was just glad to see me. He hugged me and thanked me for coming.

He jokingly asked me to meet him in the back of the church in 15 minutes. He wanted me to be the getaway driver and “steal him away” to the Philadelphia Phillies game playing later that day. “Some baseball, a beer, and maybe a burger sound perfect right now Brian.”

We both laughed an awkward laugh. His emotions were raw and his pain was palpable. He was doing his best to keep it together. I was doing my best too. I told him to be gentle with himself and we would catch-up in a few days. He liked that idea. I got the impression that he wanted me to stay and talk some more. The line though was long and he had more people to greet. We hugged again and I continued on, offering my sympathies to the rest of his family.

We all have bittersweet memories

In the past two years, I’ve had my share of viewings and funerals. I think it’s the cycle of life. In our youth, we’re invited to wedding after wedding. A few years pass and then it’s births and, then a few more years down the road, its graduations. If life is like a Taylor Swift Eras Tour, then I guess I’m in my Funeral Era. (Again I apologize for the sarcasm.)

I knelt and said a prayer by the casket. Then, I took a seat in a church pew and thought about my friend. He was close to his father. During breaks at work, he would share stories about how his old school Italian father loved to make fresh pasta. One time his father was explaining how you choose the best tomatoes and got carried away. He squeezed one so hard that it burst open. Tomato juice sprayed all over his little sister’s face and white shirt.

I couldn’t help but push back tears reflecting about my own family. I remembered the haunting sound of Taps on the bugle at my father’s funeral. Since that day twenty-some years ago, I’ve given a lot of consideration to my own mortality. Instead of a funeral, I want a wake. I’ve said this a lot in the past and I’m dead serious. I want a party. I want people celebrating. I want people laughing and smiling. If there must be tears, I want tears of laughter.

How do we want to be remembered?

Of course, I got to thinking by about my legacy. It’s such a pompous idea, but I thought about what I want said about me? How do I want people to remember me? A flurry of thoughts came to mind:

He loved his wife and family. His wife was his rock. He loved his adult kids. Their happiness was his happiness. He believed in hard work, but liked to smile and laugh. He liked others to laugh too. He liked to tell stories and write. He enjoyed diving into vulnerable memories from his past. He loved those stories because writing about them helped him. He liked how those stories helped others too. He felt blessed by God and gave life the best he had.

Oh, I’m sure there’s much that I’m missing. I have to give this one a deeper thought, but I’m starting with this list. How do you want to be remembered?