TheBanyanTree: Eulogy

[Margaret R. Kramer]

I’ve reached the age where one goes to more funerals than weddings.  Some of
the friends and family from the generation ahead of me have come to the ends
of their lives and unfortunately, attending funerals and visitations are
becoming part of my social calendar.

My mother died at a young age, 52, of a heart attack.  Her funeral was held
in our church, which was a large Lutheran church.  Every pew was full,
because my mother was very social, belonged to many groups, kept in close
contact with friends and family, and she was young.  Most of her friends and
family were still alive and in good enough shape to show their last
respects.

Her service was formal.  Our minister followed the Lutheran protocol for
funerals.  He read scriptures, we sang a few hymns, and he gave a short
sermon about my mother.  She was lucky, because Pastor Berg KNEW her, and he
was able to give her a good eulogy.  It’s so sad to attend a funeral where
it’s very obvious the officiator didn’t know the person and they kind of
ramble on and everyone hopes that the service will end quickly and they can
escape.

No one in our family gave a eulogy for my mother.  Back then in 1983, we
weren’t expected to.  Pastor Berg did depart from formality in his sermon,
and he read a poem written for my parents in honor of their 25th wedding
anniversary by the husband of one of my mother’s good friends.  The poem, in
perfect rhyme, described my parents’ relationship and their life together
with seriousness and humor.  Through our tears, we were able to smile.

This poet, the good friend of my parents, a quiet and gentle man, and a key
to my childhood, died this week, and it was my turn to attend his funeral.

It was held in an old Methodist church on St. Paul’s east side.  The small
church was full and I had a difficult time finding a place to sit.  Carl was
quite active in his church and the congregation was out in force to honor
him.

There was a brief scripture reading, and then minister began his talk.  He
obviously knew Carl very well.  He spoke about him from his heart without
using notes.  We sang a couple of hymns, good Protestant hymns, like the
“Old Rugged Cross,” and then the most wonderful part of the service began,
the eulogies by Carl’s children.

Through Cathy, Mark, and Jeanne, I found out Carl loved to fish.  He kept
records of his heating bills, his car repairs, and the daily temperature.
He helped baby-sit his grandchildren.  He loved to travel and camp and spend
time tromping around outdoors.  He loved to read.  And he loved writing
poetry.  Cathy read a beautiful poem Carl wrote for his wife on their 23rd
wedding anniversary, Valentine’s Day, they were married on Valentine’s Day,
and Joanne was Carl’s valentine.

The stiff formality of funerals past has melted into the informality of
funerals present.  I loved how the minister faded into the background, and
the family and later friends came forward to speak about Carl.  I felt close
to him as they talked.  I exchanged Christmas cards with him every year, and
in the last one I received, he wrote about how his body was falling apart,
and he wasn’t able to do much anymore.  The eulogies I heard that afternoon
filled in the pieces for me, and left me with a vibrant picture of the quiet
man I knew from childhood picnics.

Refreshments were downstairs and I sat with my mother’s nurse friends.  The
nurse friends are women my mother went to nursing school with and remained
close to all her life.  Carl’s wife, Joanne, was a nursing school classmate
of my mother’s.  Joanne died a few years ago from cancer.  We had coffee and
cake and caught up on the news since I saw them at the last funeral – my
father’s.

I hugged Cathy, the oldest daughter and then I hugged Jeanne, the youngest.
I told Jeanne she did a great job honoring her father.  I mentioned the poem
Cathy read.  Then Jeanne asked me if I looked the display in front of the
church with pictures of Carl and other mementos.  No, I hadn’t.  She told me
to look before I left.

After saying good-byes, and I went back into the quiet church and walked up
to the display.  There on the table was the poem that Carl had written to
celebrate my parents’ anniversary.

Margaret R. Kramer
margaretkramer at earthlink.net

http://www.polarispublications.com
Be a star!

http://www.bpwmn.org
Business and Professional Women of Minnesota

A birthday is just the first day of another 365-day journey around the sun.
Enjoy the trip.
  ~Author Unknown