All in the Family

At church last week, we served a funeral dinner. We are Methodists, so there was lots of good food. They say you can't cook your way to heaven, but I'm not entirely sure we believe that.

I didn't know the person who had passed, nor did I know her family.

Except I did know her father-in-law. I knew several of the mourners. As we talked with them and with each other, everyone made connections as to who was related to whom, who was in whose graduating class, and what really happened that day in 1966. Or was it '67?

There were tears ... I'm sure there were ... she was a well loved person. By all accounts, she was a giver and a doer. She will be missed. But there was laughter, too. Memories. Hugging. There were reluctant goodbyes, waving at each other before they got into their cars.

I wonder if they looked at each other as they waved and memorized the expressions on their faces, the sound of their voices, what they were wearing. Did they think about how long it might be before they see each other again? Did they realize that, in some cases, this might be the last time?

Nancy Dotson

I don't mean to sound morbid--I really don't feel that way. But I thought of my sister today, who passed away three years ago last week. I can still hear the sound of her voice in my head ... maybe in my heart. When I see faded blue eyes, I think of hers, and of the laughter that shone from them. I have dishtowels she gave me at Christmas one year. They're growing threadbare, but I still use them as hand towels.

You don't grow old without knowing loss, without grief at one point or another taking your breath away with its intensity, without wondering if you'll ever laugh again. You will likely feel the crushing pain of estrangement, the cold-water shock of being ghosted by someone you care about, and the loneliness of being without the person you most want to be with.

These are good reasons for funeral dinners. Because the memories lend a cushion to the shock and pain of loss. Laughter makes you know you can get through today. And tomorrow. If the estrangement continues or the ghosting doesn't end in an apology or an explanation, maybe you can let it go. You will see people who know your particular loneliness, who know the same stories you do from 1966. Or '67. They are, whether they're actually related or not, your family.

After the dinner and the coffee afterward and the goodbyes and the waves in the parking lot, you will feel better for having been there. You'll know you're not alone in missing the person who's passed away. And you'll chuckle on the way home about those stories.

Wishing you a Happy and blessed Easter and a good week. Be nice to somebody.

Tales from the Window is a two-book series of columns and blogs from the 1980s through 2023.