octolilly [through the years]

This post really brings back a swarm of memories. Death has always been a part of my life. My parents thought nothing of holding me in their arms while they passed the casket of a dear friend. My pitter-pattering could be heard through the funeral homes and as the years passed and people died in our church…I became quiet familiar with Robinson Funeral Home. The same men wear the same suits, the same fake grieving smiles, and the same shiny black shoes. They have known me since I was extra short with curly blonde hair…to now (still short and curly blonde hair). Death was tragic and tears always came but it was presented to me as a point of life that simply cannot be ignored.

I realized during the elementary school that some of my friends had actually never been to a funeral. That shocked me. I have gone to more funerals than weddings. I’m not warped because of it and I know it has been healthy for me.

We lived in a duplex apartment for two years while our home was being built. One afternoon, my mom and I went grocery shopping. We came home and began putting up groceries one by one. I was standing in a rolling chair (I’m not a smart girl at times) when it flipped out from under me and I landed on my hip. The phone rang at the same time and my mom ran to the phone while I began moaning. I heard her gasp and saw her face turn white. She slowly hung up the phone and asked if I was all right. I quickly stood up and asked her what was wrong. She told me that my Papa wasn’t doing well and that she was going to go check on him. I asked if I could go along with her and she stood for a minute at the top of the stairs, just thinking. Her head shook slowly and she motioned for me to finish putting up the groceries. I put up cans of soup, bread, cereal and butter and threw away the plastic bags that littered the kitchen. In my self-centered world, I was more concerned with having a good time than worrying or even praying about my Papa. I walked into the tiny living room and began blaring the music. I remember the very details of what I was thinking and doing when the doorbell rang. With slow steps, I walked to our front door. My friend Kevin was standing on the other side of the door and he was hiding his hands in his pockets and his eyes shifted from mine to the flowerpot on the front porch. In a few minutes, he whispered to me that my Papa had just died. My immediate reaction was out of anger. My Papa was my world. We were very close and I was kept from saying goodbye. The feelings of guilt soon overwhelmed me as I remembered that as he was taking his final breaths…I was blaring music and dancing to my hearts content.

However, not all of my memories of death are sad. The funeral of George Cordell will always stand out in my mind. His gentle smile was always welcoming and his deep laugh was enough to make the coldest heart thaw. The funeral service was more of a praise service than anything and the spirit was warm and the tears were not of sadness but of praise to the One who had taken him home. The most spectacular moment of the funeral was the graveside service. There were literally tons of people standing on the side of this cliff in the hills of Tennessee. Huge oak trees stood guard over the land and the wind chimes placed in the branches kept ringing out a hauntingly beautiful melody as the wind danced. Slowly, and with many tears we began to sing and the chorus echoed through the hills with a power that seemed unnatural. The wind chimes accompanied us as we sang and his home going became a monumental place in my life. A place where I felt His presence in ways I never had before.