Families and Funerals
I walk through the world feeling like a mutant sometimes. Between my short, stocky build and my curly hair, I certainly stand out in a crowd. I have no neck, sort of like Fred Flintstone. I have giant shoulders. My eyebrows, left unchecked, meet in the middle and arch like Dracula's. I have flat feet that are notoriously icky. Both my laugh and my voice carry for miles.
But today we celebrated the life of my dad's aunt, who died about 10 days ago after six months of pain and suffering. She's one of my favorite relatives — married to my pap's little brother for 58 years. She directed the children's choir at church when I was so small that I tripped over my robe. (I'd go on to sing with her in different capacities until just a few years ago.) Her kids, all way older than I am, tormented me during church well into our adulthoods. They're a great family, full of kindness and compassion (aside from tormenting me). To see their grief and experience it with them was exhausting.
As we sat in the church, though — one that I grew up in and that was fuller than I've seen it in my life — I realized that when my family comes together, I no longer feel like a mutant. In my pew alone sat my dad and uncle, both with my exact build and eyebrows. And there were probably a few dozen more folks shaped just like us in the church. You could see variations of my hair on everyone from my grieving uncle (who is 85) down to his youngest granddaughter (maybe 3?). I didn't inherit the blue eyes that run in the family, but they were scattered throughout the mourners too. More of us than will admit it have gross feet.
And man, when we get together — even to mourn the loss of one of our own — we are LOUD. We hug. We cry. We laugh. And we talk and sing. My voice, so conspicuous when I sing hymns at churches near my house, was instead complemented by the lovely voices of cousins, aunts, uncles and parents.
Some of my readers know that I feel ideologically and politically isolated from my family, but sitting in the middle of them today, I felt an overwhelming sense of home. I'm not a mutant when I'm surrounded by people who have my hair, my shoulders, my stocky farm build, my flat feet. I'm part of this giant clan that's grown from one short farmer falling in love with a curly-haired nurse more than a hundred years ago. I'm not a freak of nature. I'm just with my family.
Sometimes, that's the best place you can be.
But today we celebrated the life of my dad's aunt, who died about 10 days ago after six months of pain and suffering. She's one of my favorite relatives — married to my pap's little brother for 58 years. She directed the children's choir at church when I was so small that I tripped over my robe. (I'd go on to sing with her in different capacities until just a few years ago.) Her kids, all way older than I am, tormented me during church well into our adulthoods. They're a great family, full of kindness and compassion (aside from tormenting me). To see their grief and experience it with them was exhausting.
As we sat in the church, though — one that I grew up in and that was fuller than I've seen it in my life — I realized that when my family comes together, I no longer feel like a mutant. In my pew alone sat my dad and uncle, both with my exact build and eyebrows. And there were probably a few dozen more folks shaped just like us in the church. You could see variations of my hair on everyone from my grieving uncle (who is 85) down to his youngest granddaughter (maybe 3?). I didn't inherit the blue eyes that run in the family, but they were scattered throughout the mourners too. More of us than will admit it have gross feet.
And man, when we get together — even to mourn the loss of one of our own — we are LOUD. We hug. We cry. We laugh. And we talk and sing. My voice, so conspicuous when I sing hymns at churches near my house, was instead complemented by the lovely voices of cousins, aunts, uncles and parents.
Some of my readers know that I feel ideologically and politically isolated from my family, but sitting in the middle of them today, I felt an overwhelming sense of home. I'm not a mutant when I'm surrounded by people who have my hair, my shoulders, my stocky farm build, my flat feet. I'm part of this giant clan that's grown from one short farmer falling in love with a curly-haired nurse more than a hundred years ago. I'm not a freak of nature. I'm just with my family.
Sometimes, that's the best place you can be.
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