Bob sat down next to me at the graveside service, a handful of dirt in his hand. I gave him one of my most scathing looks and whispered, “This is not a Jewish ceremony, don’t throw that dirt in my brother’s grave.” On top of the purple and gold flowers cascading over the casket, the pall bearers filed by placing their boutonnieres in the arrangement. Then the minister started to speak about how in their reform (Presbyterian) tradition, emphasis is placed on the afterlife, and not on the body. And while reciting the prayer “…ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the solemn/seersucker/suited/Southern preacher threw a handful of dirt in among the flowers. Bob turned and smiled at me.
“Isn’t religion useful?” I said, while driving along on our twelve hour road trip home. The book NPR was discussing with its author was What Happened to Sophie Wilder, by Christopher Beha. http://www.npr.org/2012/07/26/157424289/christopher-beha-on-faith-and-its-discontents Beha is a lapsed Catholic, a non-believer like me, and he wrote a fictional account about an old college love who converted to Catholicism. I was riveted. After the radio interview, our discussion ran deep. Losing a family member, even when it was expected and an end to endless suffering, can bring some clarity into our own lives. Life is fragile, hang onto the good times, and yes, isn’t religion “useful.” Bob and I were talking about the service, the minister’s warm and heartfelt tribute to Mike, who had told him time and time again, “You’re doing my funeral, you’re MY man!” No one could refuse my brother.
I grew up super-Catholic because my foster parents were Catholic and my dead Father had been a church-going Catholic and not a “cultural Catholic.” Sacred Heart School, Camp St Joseph for Girls, maroon beanies and bow ties followed by khaki shorts and mass every morning in the summer. Beha was asked when he lost his faith and I was thinking about my own fall from grace. Remember, I was 11 when I went to live with the Flapper forever. She married a Jewish man, a judge in our small town. I acquired Jewish step-siblings and my brother Jim went to Columbia University. My first foray into a temple was for Purim, when kids dressed up in costumes and made noise like a Jewish Halloween! The polar opposite of the Latin Mass. I was hooked. Dinner table talk became enlightening, expansive. The Flapper loved Buddhism and wanted to travel to Hong Kong; she had been raised Presbyterian I believe, but always said that organized religion was for sheep. Sundays became a day for sleeping-in, the New York Times and lox and bagels with whitefish – no more church-going for me. But since I could first form a thought in my head, I never did buy the idea that only Catholics would get into heaven…and limbo? After 9/11, I was permanently done with religion of any kind.
So what is faith and how do we keep it? Mike grew up Catholic, married a Baptist, and was buried near William Faulkner by a Presbyterian. My Jewish MIL bought my cemetery plot near hers, soon after I married her son. Was this marriage counselor trying to tell me something about ’till death do us part? My step-father is buried there, and so is Bob’s brother Richard. I once knew a rabbi who said we haven’t really grown up until we plan our own funeral. Mike lived his life his way, not looking for accolades but working tirelessly. We will never know all of his good deeds, because for such a powerful man, he was pretty humble. That was rule number one from the nuns. He loved Great Danes, and his elegant Carmen never left his room. Frank Sinatra was playing, and a brother-in-law spoke about the dog sculpture that always sat on his Vikings desk. Emblazoned on its backside were the words, “If you’re not first in line, the view never changes.”
MountainMornings 