Calvary Presbyterian Church

July Messenger

Sandra BacaComment

“Sheltered by Grace: All of Us”
    Mary arrived late as I stood with the immediate family. They were quiet, standing among the gravestones, shifting on their feet. It had been a few weeks since the memorial service. We stood in plain clothes in an all but hidden, rural cemetery for the inurnment. Mary pulled up in a silver El Camino. She had inherited the funeral home from her father. She was thin, wore a tan and draping overcoat and was raspy voiced from too many cigarettes. “Well, I got him,” she announced as she rose from the car. 
    Mary had little use for ministers. With a funeral arranged by Mary I could expect to have no input, little notice, and less reimbursement. The matters of death and burial were all straightforward business in her mind. Ministers had little to offer to the affair, and their words struck no chords with her. 
    She reached to the back seat and pulled out a beautiful turquois urn and handed it to the deceased’s oldest son. “Now,” she said with some meager attempt to find the right words, while leaning on the car door. “Apparently all of him did not fit in the urn.” She reached again behind the seat and pulled out a coffee can. “Here is the rest of him,” she proclaimed. “I’m not sure what you want to do with it. I guess he was a big man.” I don’t remember him being that large a man, I thought. The family shifted back on their heels, their eyes darted between the glassy urn and the old “Folgers” can. They were taken off-guard by the unexpected dilemma.
    I observed with great interest at this point, and tried to contain any chuckles. I always thought of funeral homes bringing decorum to the difficult business of burial and remembering. The family members walked uneasily with me towards the grave where the groundskeeper had cut the precise sized hole in the ground to contain the tiny vault that would house the urn. They set both containers near the hole that only had room for one. Suddenly, I found myself starting to like Mary. 
    In her callous style, Mary had broken through the impulse and decorum that allows or encourages families to pull out the positive memories while leaving at bay anything that might be deemed negative or capable of smearing the glassy memory of a loved one. For there sat the glassy urn along with the lackluster can, and as usual, only room for one. But what do you do with a person’s surplus, that which doesn’t fit cleanly with the rest?  
    I remember back to my own grandfather’s funeral. I remember people giving testimony and telling stories of his faith, of his well-worn Bible, of his faithfulness and prayerfulness – all while his surviving children sat in the front row looking down and away. The minister gave a glowing eulogy of my grandfather’s public churchgoing life, stealing uncomfortable glances once in a while in the direction of the downcast descendants, as if to acknowledge that there was only room for one story; the glassy one would be told. 
    Is there room for all of us under the shelter of God’s grace? Certainly the gospel stories suggest so – from the woman with a bleeding condition, to the tax collectors, the lepers, and so on. Can we find peace and forgiveness and the freedom to find our way with Christ, telling the whole story? Can we bring all of ourselves under Christ with peace and confidence, and let Christ help us find the words for it? Can we invite others under this shelter of God’s grace without condition or qualification? 
    The cemetery groundskeeper walked forward as I finished, obviously observing the family’s uncertainty as to what to do. He compassionately took his shovel and added a carefully cut half circle onto the existing square hole; big enough to receive the tin urn. The one laid to rest along with the other. I continued to observe, standing passively by, as these rather un-ceremonial figures did the holy work of laying a whole person to rest. As they drove off in cars, a rusty truck, and one silver El Camino, I walked slowly to my car. I walked by others whose burials I had officiated, and wondered to myself if all of them had really fit into their glassy urns. 
- Pastor Dave

July Messenger