Always go to the funeral

Most of you reading this blog, have lived enough life, that you’ve lost someone you loved.  They day of the funeral goes by fast enough.  The eulogy, the kind words, the well wishes.  There’s a moment however, where you look around and notice how full the church is.  Your not proud of it, but you use this as some sort of barometer of an authentic life lived.  Did they build relationships with others?  Did they make an impact in lives outside of their own?  You can’t help but notice who showed up.  You can't help but notice who couldn't find the time.  Are these empty pews a testament of the person in the casket, or the rest of us, trying to discern while we are still here, what it is that really matters?

I still remember seeing Father Stanger at the Presbyterian church at my father’s funeral.  I was telling a story about my Dad and I looked back and noticed a priest sitting in the back pew.  He hadn’t been pastor of Holy Infant for more than a few weeks.  I never forgot it.

I think of the words Bob Costas spoke about the eulogy he gave at Mickey Mantle’s funeral:

“People asked me, 'How did you avoid breaking down when up there talking?'  And I told those who asked that, yes, there was one moment, and the moment was this:

As you stood there, you look out, and I tried not to make eye contact with his family. But everywhere you looked across the church, there would be Whitey Ford or Yogi Berra or Duke Snider or Reggie Jackson or Commissioner Selig. Everywhere you looked, baseball luminaries who had been connected to Mickey’s life as teammates or those who shared New York; and they sat in a special VIP section. (Billy Crystal, who idolized him, was there.) And they were in a little section down to the right. And at one point, midway through, I just kinda looked up to glance around the room the way you do when you’re not looking at anyone in particular and you’re looking out over the crowd, and I saw, against the wall at the end of a pew about a third of the way back by himself, Stan Musial. And in that moment I was struck by the sheer decency of that simple act.

Nobody would’ve marked Stan Musial absent that day. Never played with Mickey, except in All-Star games.  Never played against him, wasn’t in the same league, wasn’t linked with him like Willie Mays was. No one would’ve marked him absent. And it struck me in that split second as I turned away, because I didn’t want to continue the eye contact because I knew what would happen to me, it struck me that a 74-, 75-year-old man, who had battled prostate cancer, had gotten out of bed that morning and gone to Lambert.  He got on a flight by himself and had flown out with no special treatment, to pay his respects to a man who respected him so much, and to try and comfort a family that was in a great deal of pain."

In my life, the daily battles I face aren’t between good and evil.  Most days it is doing good versus doing nothing.  The things that represent only an inconvenience to me, but the world to the other guy.  Going to that painfully unattended birthday party.  The hospital visit during happy hour.  Doing the right thing even though you really, really don’t feel like it.

So as I rush around in my hurried life, I remind myself of those words that become an anthem when applied to your every day………..always go to the funeral.