My first funeral

Wrote this my senior year of High School.
April 3, 2009 

My first funeral

            My mom calls me and asks what I am doing on Tuesday night. It is a strange question. She never asks me if I am busy on school nights. “Homework, I guess”, I tell her. She tells me to finish my homework immediately after school. “Why?” I ask.  She ignores me and asks if I have any black clothing. Of course I have black clothing. I question her again. She sighs, “You’re uncle is dead, lung cancer”. She hangs up.

            I have many uncles, but for some strange reason I know which uncle my mom had been referring to. He was only fifty six years old, six years older than my own dad. Lung cancer? I never even knew he had lung cancer. I stare blankly at the phone. I wait for a feeling of sadness to hit me. It never comes. Why don’t I feel sad? Should I feel sad? Is it terribly wrong that I don’t feel sad?    

            When someone suddenly dies, the first thing you think of is when you last saw or talked to that person. New Years Day. I remember his twinkling eyes and his gentle smile. My sisters, my cousins, and I bowed to him and wished him a long and healthy life. He smiled and handed each of us twenty dollar bills. He looked so alive. He had just become a reverend. It is so hard to believe that someone who was so good and alive is now dead.

            For the next few days I am not bothered by his death. Sure, every night I say a brief prayer for my aunt and my cousin, but I carry on with my life as if I had never heard the news.  An hour before the funeral, my house is filled with the racket of my family scrambling to get dressed. We prepare ourselves as if we are attending any other family gathering. We pile into the car and talk merrily amongst ourselves. It feels like another Thanksgiving or Christmas.

            When we pull up into the church parking lot, the mood changes quickly. The reality of my uncle’s death finally hits me. We slip quietly into the sanctuary and blend in with the sea of black in the pews. Curious, I let my eyes wander. I count the rows. There must be at least five hundred people here. My mom jabs me and orders me to sit still.

            On an enormous projection screen, a slideshow of my uncle’s pictures is shown. I am amazed at how young and handsome he looked about twenty years ago. There is a picture of my uncle and my aunt standing together. They look so young and happy. Behind me a woman cries. Her sobs make my own eyes water. I feel a lump rising in my throat. Blink fast. Breathe. Blink fast. Swallow. I look up at the projection screen. Now there is a picture of my uncle smiling; his arms are raised as if he is on a roller coaster. The tears overflow and fall. I want it to be a joke. I want my uncle to jump out behind the casket and tell us it was all a joke. I keep seeing his face so clearly. His few hairs that are combed over his bald head. His wrinkles. His eyes that twinkle when he laughs.

            One by one, my uncle’s friends stand at the podium and make speeches about how great he was. He was such a wonderful man they all say. I wish I brought a tissue. Why am I wearing mascara? A pastor preaches his sermon. He explains how my uncle has finished the race. We should rejoice for him and congratulate him for finishing the race. His message uplifts me a little bit.  Only for a short while. The pastor then turns to my uncle’s son, Paul.  He tells Paul that his father’s last wish would be for Paul to keep his faith so that one day he will be with his father in heaven. He tells him that his father is waiting for him. The tears start again. 

              After the Pastor finishes speaking, the casket is opened. I remember a conversation I had a few days earlier. I was telling my friend that I had never seen a dead body before. I wish I never said that.  The people in each row shuffle into the middle aisle. I see my aunt being pulled away from the casket. She stands next to the casket, along with my cousin and my uncle’s parents. I observe the people. They move up, two people at a time. Bow their heads in front of the casket. Move to the side. Shake hands with my uncle’s family. Some give them sympathetic pats. Others hug them. After about twenty minutes, it is my turn. I tug my little sister closer to my side. We stand in front of the opened casket. My uncle looks so unnaturally small, so unnaturally orange. I tear my body away. I briefly hug my cousin and move on to my aunt. She is looking down, crying. I call her name and she looks up, surprised to see me there. I hug her for awhile. She feels unusually small and thin, not like the strong and commanding woman she usually is. I let go and move on to an elderly lady. She does not look familiar, but I am almost certain that she is my uncle’s mother. I feel terrible that her son has died before her. The lady grabs my hand. “Eunjie?” she says my Korean name. “You’ve grown up so much” She cries and hugs me. My tears seem endless.

            As I walk out of the sanctuary the atmosphere is completely different. People are laughing and conversing. Their grieving is already over. I think about my aunt though, how her life will never be the same. 

            The car ride home is much more solemn. My sisters and I grumble when we reach our home and drag our feet to our rooms. In an attempt to turn on my lamp in my dark room, I trip over an object. My guitar. The guitar my uncle gave me. A pick it up carefully and sit on my bed. In the dark, I strum the strings slowly. A week ago I wanted a new guitar for my birthday, a smaller guitar, so my fingers would not have to furiously reach for the notes. I balance the large guitar on my lap. It reminds me of my great and tall uncle. I strum the strings again. It produces a deep and rich sound, just like my uncle’s voice. I vow to never get rid of this guitar. This way I will not forget. I will be able to keep the memories of my uncle alive.

                                                                             ---

The guitar he gave me.
After many callouses. I can now freely play it and worship God.

Sometimes you don't even know the impact that you have on others until later on. One day when I meet my uncle in heaven I want to tell him what a blessing his gift was and how it has deepened my relationship with God. He never ministered to me personally but his simple act of kindness showed me great love and generosity. As my sister wrote to me once "I hope you remember the full effect that even the smallest of your actions can have on others. Spread the love."