Attending a Funeral

I returned to my adopted home of New Hampshire to attend the funeral of my children’s grandmother. Despite my excitement to return to a place I love, I knew I was entering an “emotional minefield” and needed to have my wits about me or, as they say in AA, be “prayed up.”

The roads were familiar and the pines as fragrant as I remembered. Tempted to roll down the window and shout “I’m back,” I refrained. This special place, so intertwined with my soul, existed whether I was there or not. Still, I was desperate to awaken our dormant relationship. I went to an familiar diner, drove by our old house, passed the church I used to attend, and ate a flavor of ice cream I’ve only found there, but none of it stirred the magic I missed and craved.

The funeral was down the road from where I used to live and my chest tightened as I entered the sacred space. Ex-inlaws were up front and other familiar faces were now adorned with grey hair like mine. I took my seat in the back, where I felt I belonged, and, real or perceived, some greetings seemed frosty and I was tempted to read into each one. I tried to focus on the mother-in-law I loved, but after the service, I went to her grave to say a proper goodbye alone before skipping the crowded receiving line.

No place to go, I drove and drove. I even imagined buying a place to which I could return from time to time but realized I was like a child knocking on a door that had shut years ago. No matter how hard I knocked, it remained closed.

I came to attend a funeral. I just didn’t know that funerals come in all shapes and sizes and that grief wears many masks.

Reeds

 I went to the beach by myself this morning with no headphones, books, or journal. It took time to become comfortable without my usual tools to occupy me. I wanted to try and be still and listen for whatever voice God might use to speak to me. It was only me and the sea, but it turned out that was all I needed.

When I was a child, I was taught that praying meant bending my knees, folding my hands, closing my eyes, and saying certain words. I learned that prayer is as much about listening as it is speaking, and that I do better praying with my eyes wide open.

“Ok, here I am,” I whispered. “I’m not too good at this praying stuff, but I’m here if you want to say something.”

It was a particularly windy day, and the sea was unsettled. The tide was coming in, and I knew I would eventually have to move my chair back toward the dunes, but, in the meantime, I watched as each wave inched closer. There were piles of reeds along the shore which served as buffers from the water’s rise. Watching the waves approach and hit the reeds spoke volumes to me.

I have had a life-long relationship with the ocean and consider it one of my closest, even divine, friends. I’ve spent hours watching it, swimming in it, and walking beside it. Through many chapters of my life, many times when I felt I was on my own, the ocean has been a constant companion, a steady comfort. It’s not a surprise that as I have searched for an understanding of God, a power greater than myself, my heart turned to the ocean as an image. In fact, waves always seem to be calling out “hello” and washing my feet when abruptly climbing the shore.

Sitting there this morning, I watched a wave approach and the pile of reeds hold it back. As this scene repeated itself, I thought of all the ways God seeks to draw close to me and the various “reeds” that stand in the way. My pile is made up of wounds and character defects (as they say in AA), fears I hold and mistakes I’ve made. Each one is not enough to hold back a wave, but when they’re piled together, they have surprising power. The church has long known this, so have twelve-step recovery circles.

It’s time to recognize the reeds piled before me and remove the ones I can so the sea can flow effortlessly up the shore toward my feet again.

Leaves Turning

“There’s a storm coming,” said the wrangler as we rode past a grove of aspen trees.

“How do you know,” I asked, not sure if he was kidding me. The sky was blue, the breeze light.

“When the leaves twist like that, there’s always a change in the weather coming.”

I still didn’t know if I should believe him, but as I watched the rain that afternoon, I knew he was right.

Days later, when I was sitting in a room full of recovering alcoholics, I realized the same wisdom is true with other kinds of storms. Long before it rains, there are signs . . . if we have eyes to see. For the assembled people, they know that a drink happens long before a bottle is pulled from the cupboard. For others, divorces begin long before papers are signed. Jobs are lost before one is called into the boss’s office, and small pains arrive before the doctor delivers the news.

The question is, can we notice the signs? Can we see the leaves turning as we ride past?

For people seeking to live spiritual lives, the goal is to live in God’s will and not our own. That’s easier said than done, but we know when we are in one and not the other. Sometimes we don’t realize it until it rains, but the wrangler helped me remember there are signs calling out to us to let us know when we’re not completely in God’s will. When we begin judging everything and everyone, the leaves are turning. When we look at someone with envy, when we can only see the mistakes of our past, when we no longer care about the plight of others, or there’s a sarcasm or an edge to something we say, the leaves are turning and a storm is on its way.

We cannot tell the breeze not to blow, but we can notice the leaves. It takes practice and a good dose of humility, but, in time, we don’t need to wait for the storm. We can notice the leaves.