I pulled it out of the closet again. The black dress. Well,
it is really black and white. I didn’t even have to look for my slip because
only three weeks ago, I hung up the dress with the slip. The same tights, wool
lined for these cold winter days, were bundled in small ball in my drawer. And
I did invest in closed toe shoes since my July funeral wardrobe has needed a
seasonal revamp. But, here I was dressing for a funeral again. This makes 5
funerals in 6 months. The way the dress fell on my body when I slipped it over
my head made my mind swirl to the last time I wore it helping a friend say
goodbye to her adult son.
Like that funeral, this one required a long drive in the
car. But, the difference this Sunday was that I was alone driving towards my
favorite place, the beach, in my favorite state, NC; the beach and the state
that forced me to think of my dad. He would have told me that I looked
beautiful in my dress and made a joke about how my mom would probably be making
chicken tetrazini, her funeral dish. We are from the south. We are Baptist.
Someone dies and we bring food, then hug, tightly.
I was headed to a Baptist church this past Sunday as well.
My best friend’s grandmother had taken her last breath days before and was
ready to go home. She wanted to see her husband again, meet Princess Diana, and
thank God for the wonderful life she had lived. She told my friend and I not to
be sad, for she was ready. She and her family were probably ready for it too.
The weeks leading up to her death, they knew it was coming but then somehow in
that instant, when the last breath is gasped, it just doesn’t matter that they
were ready or that we were prepared. She is gone. And, a house of her things
remains: memories, pictures, stories, royal English history trinkets, a four
poster bed from the Civil War, and a farm that once thrived on the flat eastern
north Carolina land.
Mrs. Cora Leigh was loved and I was honored to be there to
honor her beautiful life and the amazing family she raised. But, the drive to
be with my friend, the funeral songs sung from the Baptist hymnal, and the
emptiness reminded me of the dad I miss so much. He didn’t tell me that he was
ready and he couldn’t wait to see someone in Heaven. He did have 97 years to
fill his home with plates of the royal family or pictures of great
grandchildren. No, we had no warning. I had no warning. No expectation. No
thought to ever cross my mind that I would lose him so soon.
The drive to Moyock, NC made me relive the drive to
Henderson, NC the day my mom told me about my dad. The staring out the window,
the streamline of tears down my face, and the nauseating feeling in my stomach
all returned. I had to focus though, I was driving, not a mere passenger as I
was that July morning. This isn’t about
him. This isn’t about me. I kept telling myself. This is about my friend
and her dear grandmother she lost. I would tell myself those same things as I
went to the other funerals. It wasn’t my child I was burying. It wasn’t my
mother I was losing. It wasn’t my brother or my grandmother.
But, no matter what I told myself, this funeral and as I
suspect, every funeral from here on out will be about reliving my own grief, my
own pain, and my own connection with those who have lost ones that they love.
And, I have to remind myself of truth. I don’t know why my dad went to be with
the Lord when he did. I don’t know why my friend’s daughter didn’t live to see
her 1st birthday. I don’t know what they Lord has in store. But I do
know that He is with me and He will help me.
For I am the Lord your
God
who
takes hold of your right hand
and says to you, Do
not fear;
I
will help you. – Isaiah 41:13
Someone once told me that if we had a chance to know the
future, good or bad, it would probably be best not to know it. For if we did,
we may not enjoy what we could know today, that today is a gift and no matter
what lies ahead, we have a mighty God that will see us through. So, today as my
tears still flow, I picture the beautiful ocean I saw this Sunday with the
waves crashing along the shore. I am thankful for every wave of God’s mercy
that washes over me when the grief feels too heavy or when the memory of the
beach with my father is too much to bear. God is here. He is holding my right
hand. I will not fear.
