I am a late arrival to understanding the importance of ceremony in our lives.
But I've often been late to understanding the more cerebral things in life. I suppose I'm a slow learner but I also think it's due to my tendency to overlook the obvious. The forest for the trees and such. I recently posted about completely missing Anton Chirguh as the symbol of fate/death in No Country for Old Men. You get the idea...
Fortunately some things are hard to miss. One of those things occurred last night. The church my late aunt attended holds a yearly service for those who have passed in the last twelve months. My father and I attended in her honor.
It's the major Methodist church in my hometown and as such is the beneficiary of well-to-do members. The outside of the building is pedestrian but the sanctuary is impressive with its simplicity and beauty. I had been in the sanctuary before but had forgotten how it's construction and furnishings lends itself to its purpose.
The service of remembrance was primarily musical. It was beautiful to hear and see. A fifty something member choir was backed by two cellos, two violas, a violin, a bass and a harp player. It sounded like the words that were sung were in Latin or some other foreign language and when I looked at the program that was the case as translations were listed for each segment. A baritone and a soprano took their turns as well. The massive stained glass rendering of Jesus overlooked us all and provided a stunning visual of why we were there. My father whispered to me at one point that this was the same sanctuary that my maternal grandfather's funeral was held in. He died when I was very young and I barely knew him but it made me feel good to know that.
There were thirty-two passings in the last year at the church, my father's sister being one of them. As each of those names were called a representative of the family came forward to receive one single white rose in remembrance. I recognized some names. The former CEO of the Fortune 500 company headquartered in town. The father of a judge was another. A couple of names I had heard my parents talk about in the past.
My father and I made the trip up the main aisle together and we were greeted and handed the white rose by the minister who presided over my aunt's graveside service. When we returned to our seats my father whispered to me that she would have reveled in this ceremony and that our presence would have been important to her. And he said, as we southerners sometimes say, she rose above her upbringing to deserve this type of service. He was right.
My father had asked me earlier if I thought it would be OK for him to leave before the service was over. At age eighty-nine he had put in twelve hours of work already for the day and I told him that it was fine to do so. He left with the single white rose in his hand.
My thoughts went to my childhood and the Mother's Day services at our small church. Each year children of living mothers were honored by wearing a red rose on their clothes. I did it many times.
White roses were worn by those children whose mothers had passed. My father, who lost his mother before he was ten years old, always wore a white rose.
We humans are sometimes capable of extraordinary things. Ceremonies of remembrance are one of those things.
November 2, 2009 in
Life |
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Thank you for this brother. It is, I think, my favorite post of your entire blog (except for "Welcome Home, Bro" of course). Our Aunt was deserving of that ceremony, and as you know, has in her death even continued to affect us in myriad ways. I am on the coast tonight looking at a full moon and thinking of her and you and Dad and being grateful that I am a part of the ceremony, even though I wasn't there.
Posted by: Aristaeus at Nov 2, 2009 11:49:53 PM
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