Burying a Child of God

They began arriving one or two at a time, sitting in their cars, not sure of what to do. It was hot, and nobody wanted to get out first, so they waited in their suits with the windows rolled up and the air conditioning on until the hearse arrived. It was unlike any hearse any of them had seen before...a minivan with the funeral home's name on the back. The funeral director got out of the van and motioned for everyone to gather round. One by one, car doors opened and the young men made their way across the gravel road toward the pavilion.

They fiddled with their ties and buttoned their jackets, respectful and awkward at the same time. The funeral director asked for pall bearers, and all the guys stepped forward. Only six were needed, so the rest of the young men gathered around and volunteered to read the prayers and readings during the service. They divided things up so that every one of the 12 or 13 of them had something to do. The funeral director checked his watch and said, "Let us begin."

The pall bearers approached the back of the van and gently lifted the casket out. The wooden handles dug into their flesh, but none of them flinched, and they carried the cloth-covered particle board casket to the pavilion and placed it carefully on the pedestal and waited.

One of them began to read, but it was hard to hear him over the drone of the cars passing on the interstate nearby and the roar of the lawn mower in the distance. Someone reminded the boys to read loudly, so when his turn came, each one fairly shouted in order to be heard. They were reminded that God has prepared a place for everyone of his children and that there is no death, only life in Christ.

When time came for someone to speak about the deceased, silence descended upon the group, and the young men, heads bowed, began to look uncomfortably out of the corners of their eyes, waiting for someone to say something. Finally, the teacher spoke. She said, "While we don't know much about Mr. Smith, we do know that he was created in God's image. We also know that he was God's son, and that makes him our brother. And as with anyone who has died, we mourn their passing and celebrate that he is with God in Heaven. I ask that as you go about your day today, you remember Mr. Smith. Remember him during the school year. Say a prayer for him when you do, and he will not be forgotten."

They prayed for Eternal Rest and Perpetual Light, and then the pall bearers lifted the casket and made their way over to the grave site. It was a hole in the ground. Nothing more. No fake grass to cover the dirt that had been dug away. No fancy stands to hold the casket or draped lowering devices to ease it down. Not even a vault in which to place the remains. Just a hole. Nothing more.

Prayers were said as a man watched from the seat of the backhoe. Two guys in tee shirts waited with their arms slung across the fence and a chain lift at their feet. Cars zoomed by. Someone honked. The boys made the sign of the cross and headed back to their cars. The funeral director thanked them for their service to a stranger.

The teacher asked me which boy was mine. I pointed him out in his dark suit and tie, looking much older than his 15 years. She asked what was his motivation for coming today. I told her that he had been a pall bearer for his aunt who had died when he was in the 7th grade. For his confirmation, he had chosen St. Joseph of Arimathea because he felt like it was an honor to escort the dead to their place of rest. When he saw that school had a St. Joseph of Arimathea Society, which presides over the funerals of the homeless and poor, he wanted to join. He had experienced death lately, a friend who had 1000 mourners and his grandfather who had a loving family. How sad, he thought, if those people had had no one to mourn for them. No one to see them to their rest. So he came. She wanted to know if he was doing the service at 1:30. I said I didn't know, but I would ask.

We returned to our car and followed the rest of the young men down the gravel drive and onto the blacktop. We sat in silence for a minute or two, and I said, "That was nice. I'm proud of you for doing that."

"Yeah. It was WAY different that Grandpa's," he replied. "I felt sad for the guy that there was nobody there but us, but at least we were there for him."

"Do you want to help with the next funeral?" I asked.

"Of course," my son replied. "Yes. Of course."

We shared lunch then, the two of us, and talked about the summer and the life experiences we'd had, so, so hard for both of us. I looked across the table at my boy, and thought, "I am so very lucky to have you for my son, and so very, very proud of the man you are becoming."

He must have read my mind because at that minute, he looked up from his plate of food and smiled at me, a big grin, and said, "Thanks for bringing me, Mom. It means a lot."

We finished eating and headed back to the Potter's Field. We waited once again as the cars drove up, one by one, and the young men got out and began walking to the pavilion where they gathered around to bury the next child of God.