yet another home stretch

Yesterday's funeral mass at St. Gregory the Great was amazing. Amazing to the point that my sister Nanc and I thought it might be possible to attend Catholic church again. Almost.

The priest knew my cousin Joe, since Joe attended mass every morning. He knew where Joe sat on which days (in the back during the week and up front on weekends) and why (because when it was crowded in church, Joe worried about being able to be on his feet for too long). Father Rich is a young man (maybe 40?) with a rich baritone singing voice and what appeared to be great reverence and joy at doing his job. He spoke with love about my cousin's volunteer work at the church (candles and helping his friend Jan with floral arrangements) and the hospital (5 days a week until he got too sick). He understood that blood family took second place in Joe's life after he was adopted by his "across the driveway neighbors" 20 years ago.

Jan took note of him and after a few days of settling in to her new condo, invited Joe to dinner. His response was, "I already ate." But she kept up with the invitation and eventually Joe became not just a friendly neighbor but a family member. Jan's first son was at high risk of SIDS death, and when she needed help, Joe would rush over to hold the baby for her. And when that son died, Joe was the first one over there to hold her hand. He wouldn't have had a clue what to say, but he could do that: hold her hand and cry with her, and remember David with her, when no one else had memories of the three-month-old child and therefore many people avoided her. When one of her later-born sons broke his leg, it was Joe who rushed them to the hospital. He was there for every cut and scrape, every graduation and birthday, every honor, every high school play. His photo albums and scrap books are full of "family" events with the Snyders and thank-you letters from the two sons, now grown and in college, and who still consider Joe their dearest (if "oldest") friend.

Father Rich knew all of this. (I didn't. Joe didn't talk about stuff like this.) The service was beautiful, personal, heartfelt and deeply spiritual. The priest related story after story showing what kind of man my cousins was. When a new and elderly neighbor moved next door here, Pat walked over to introduce himself. He said to my cousin, "I know we'll be good neighbors and friends." Joe's reply: "We'll see." And yet every morning Joe brought Pat's newspaper from the driveway to the door, knowing that Pat couldn't walk well at all - though neither did Joe - and sat with him for a brief bit of company and a cup of coffee.

When it came time for the sacrament, Father Rich invited us all to come to the altar. I didn't do this at my parents' funerals. According to church doctrine, I can no longer receive the sacraments, and even though I don't believe that the Divine really gives a rat's ass about Catholic church doctrine, I respected my parents enough not to push it. But Father Rich invited even those of us who would not receive the sacrament to come forward, and to hold our hands at our hearts so he would know to give us a blessing instead of the wafer. He clamped his hand onto the top of my head and then touched my cheek with his hand. I won't forget how he included me yesterday, how before and even after the service he held me in a tight embrace while I wept all over his vestments. I won't forget the enormous capacity that all these people in Joe's life had not only for him, but for giving and loving. It's an important lesson for me about expansion over contraction, embracing over protecting, extending rather than turning away, and keeping open, all the time. To see my stinginess and selfishness, my laziness and my threadbare spirit in such a compassionate setting was a gift and a hope and a light.

Being in his church and with his community was comforting. Staying here in his home is comforting. When I leave here tomorrow, after his burial, I'm likely to never see this place again or any of the things Joe had that I remember from his father's house, from when I was a little girl, like the old crank phone, the letters from my grandmother, the hundreds of photos of my grandparents and aunts and uncles in their youth. These things all belong to someone else now, and I know the Snyders will treasure and honor these things from deep within their hearts.

I was horrified to see that my return tickets are for Thursday. I was cheered to know that I can change them to Tuesday, and I have. I'll see Aunt Grace again today and maybe pop in on Jill if I can track her down. After the burial tomorrow I'll come back here to clean up after myself and then head off to visit with Charlie and Mohamed, where I'll spend the night. It's just a short drive from there to Philly, and I have only a 2-hour layover at O'Hare instead of the 4 coming east. hobbitt will be at SeaTac to take me home.

I wonder how many meat grinders I'll have to go through before I finally get tenderized the way the universe evidently wants me to be.

Remind me when I get home that it's time to start trying to make more of myself, do more for others and try to make a difference somewhere. Just don't call too early, okay?