Consumed by my loss, I didn't notice the hardness of the
pew where I sat.
I was at the funeral of my dearest friend, my mother.
She finally had lost her long battle with cancer. The hurt
was so
intense;
I found it hard to breathe at times.
Always supportive, Mother clapped loudest at my school
plays, held a box
of tissues while listening to my first heartbreak,
comforted me at my
father's death, encouraged me in college, and prayed for me
my entire
life.
When Mother's illness was diagnosed, my sister had a
new baby and
my brother had recently married his childhood
sweetheart, so it fell
on
me, the 27-year-old middle child without entanglements, to
take care of
her. I counted it an honor.
What now, Lord?" I asked sitting in church. My life
stretched out before
me as an empty abyss. My brother sat stoically with his
face toward the
cross while clutching his wife's hand. My sister sat
slumped
against her husband's shoulder, his arms around her as she
cradled their
child.
All so deeply grieving, no one noticed I sat alone. My
place had been
with our mother, preparing her meals, helping her
walk, taking her
to the doctor, seeing to her medication, reading the
Bible together.
Now
she was with the Lord. My work was finished, and I was
alone.
I heard a door open and slam shut at the back of
the church.
Quick footsteps hurried along the carpeted floor. An
exasperated young
man
looked around briefly and then sat next to me. He folded
his hands and
placed them on his lap. His eyes were brimming with
tears. He began to
sniffle. "I'm late," he explained, though no explanation
was necessary.
After several eulogies, he leaned over and commented,
"Why do they
keep calling Mary by the name of 'Margaret'?"
"Because that was her name, Margaret. Never Mary.
No one called
her 'Mary,'" I whispered.
I wondered why this person
couldn't have sat
on the other side of the church. He interrupted my
grieving with his
tears and fidgeting.
Who was this stranger anyway?
"No, that isn't correct," he insisted, as several people
glanced over at
us whispering, "Her name is Mary, Mary Peters."
"That isn't who this is."
"Isn't this the Lutheran church?"
"No, the Lutheran church is across the street."
"Oh."
"I believe you're at the wrong funeral, Sir."
The solemness of the occasion mixed with the
realization of the
man's mistake bubbled up inside me and came out as
laughter. I cupped
my hands over my face, hoping it would be interpreted as
sobs. The
creaking pew gave me away. Sharp looks from other mourners
only made the
situation seem more hilarious. I peeked at the bewildered,
misguided man
seated beside me. He was laughing, too, as he glanced
around, deciding
it
was too late for an uneventful exit.
I imagined Mother laughing.
At the final "Amen," we darted out a door and into the
parking lot. "I
do believe we'll be the talk of the town," he smiled.
He said his
name
was Rick and since he had missed his aunt's funeral, asked
me out for a
cup of coffee. That afternoon began a lifelong journey
for me with
this
man who attended the wrong funeral, but was in the right
place.
A year after our meeting, we were married at a country
church where he
was the assistant pastor. This time we both arrived at
the same church,
right on time.
In my time of sorrow, God gave me laughter. In place of
loneliness,
God gave me love. This past June we celebrated our
twenty-second
wedding anniversary.
Whenever anyone asks us how we met, Rick tells them,
"Her mother and
my Aunt Mary introduced us, and it's truly a match made in
heaven."
Jesus said, " if you are ashamed of me," I will be ashamed
of you before
my Father."
Not ashamed
Pass this on . . . only if you mean it.
Yes, I do Love God. He is my source of existence and
Savior. He
keeps
everyday and me functioning each. Without Him, I would be
nothing.
Without
him, I am nothing, but with Him I can do all things,
through Christ
that
strengthens me. Phil 4:13