A Funeral

We drove half-way across the state this morning to attend the funeral of my good friend Rick's mother.  I can't remember how long I've known Rick, but it seems like a long time.  Rick married my wife's best friend a few years ago and the four of us are like family, if you were given the luxury of choosing who your family members are.

Carol was born in 1935.  She and her husband raised six sons on their farm in Iowa County.  All six sons, their wives, children and grandchildren still live near the farm.  Carol's husband died six years ago.  ALS.  Rick took a six month leave of absence and moved into his parents' home so he could take care of his father.  The idea of putting Dad or Mom into a nursing home was unthinkable.

Carol was diagnosed with cancer about a year ago.  She had surgery and chemo, and was sick as could be.  A different son took her in to the city for her chemo treatments three times weekly.  A nurse was hired to spend overnight with her.  Three weeks ago she called all her sons to come visit and told them that she was done with chemo.  She surrendered.  It was time to die.   An eighty year old woman said enough is enough.  Carol's physicians said that she might make it another six months; she lived two weeks and died in her home with her family around her.

The funeral was this morning.  It was a beautiful winter day here; light, dry snowflakes gently floating to earth in the absence of wind.  We watched the snow through church windows, falling as quietly as the tears of the family.  The snow seemed to be whispering a message to the family that everything will be okay.

The church is in a small town, Spring Green, and is the third church built on its site.  The first church was built in the 1850s.  Stone was quarried near the plum thicket and set in place by hand.  Timbers were floated down the Wisconsin River from Necedah, where they had been harvested, and then dragged over sand roads form the river to town.  The first church was small, a white frame building on a stone foundation on a lot surrounded by a white picket fence.

The second church was larger, built of bricks and frame in the 1880s.  Parishoners built this church, made the stained glass windows, built the pews and the altar and plastered the interior.  Hard labor done by loving hands.  This church burned down in 1988.

The third church, the present one, was designed by William Wesley Peters, an associate of Frank Lloyd Wright.  It is both beautiful and humbling by its simplicity.  It has elements of Wright's Prairie Style architecture, but is appropriately subdued for a church.  We felt like we were in a special place, which is how a church should make one feel.  Simple, but beautiful.  Welcoming.  Warm.  Peaceful.

Some of Carol's grandchildren gave the Epistle readings.  Nervous, their voices cracking, they soldiered through it.  Father Mike knew Carol for years and gave us a wonderful and loving homily about her life.  He told us about the times when others in the community needed help and Carol would show up at church with the trunk of her car filled with food she grew, or preserves she had made, or blankets and baby clothes, or she'd just sit and listen to others who need to talk.  He told us about how she would be among the first to welcome those who had moved to the area, and how she'd quietly remind others in the Ladies Prayer Group not to judge anyone by their appearance, only by their heart.

At the end of the service I looked at her six sons sitting together in the front pew, heads down, their shoulders shaking at sobs during the final prayers.  I couldn't help think that Carol and her husband sowed good seed on fertile soil, watched it grow, kept away the weeds and thistles, and nurtured the seeds to ripeness.

And in turn those six have done the same for their children, some who now do the same for their children.  The eternal cycle of life.

Funerals didn't mean much to me when I was younger.  They were like weddings; an opportunity to see people not seen in a long time.  Except weddings were more fun, and funerals were more gloomy.  I don't know when that changed, but funerals now are the occasion for joy, a bittersweet joy, for certain, but joy none the less.  The joy of celebrating a life very well lived.

I really didn't plan on going on this long.  I sat down and the words just poured out.  Thanks for listening.