I recently attended a memorial service at a local Methodist church for my great-aunt (my mother’s mother’s late brother’s wife) who had died from cancer.
Although not late, I arrived to a full church. Lurking in the alcove at the back of the church with a silly smirk on his face, which immediately seemed to me somewhat inappropriate, was a chubby man dressed in shorts and a black t-shirt with a picture depicting our specie’s evolutionary progression from some lower life form to a geek at a desk – if not inappropriate, most certainly unnecessary.
My mother beckoned me as she shuffled to make space for me on the pew she was sharing with her mother and sister. I self-consciously squeezed past a row of knees and wedged myself between my mother and my gran. My mother immediately referred me to a hymn sheet which included a couple of paragraphs apparently written by the deceased’s daughter – my mother’s cousin. It read something like “If there are roses in heaven, pick some for my mother…”.
I thought it only respectful to participate in the hymn singing. However when the pastor summoned us to prayer, I gently fought the almost instinctive act of dropping my head. Instead I, alone, looked directly ahead. I purposely refrained from joining the chorused Lord’s Prayer – suddenly acutely aware that my mother would have noticed my quiet rebellion.
After the service, the deceased’s daughter approached my dad and myself, thanking us for coming. (The last time I had seen her was probably twenty-five years ago. She had aged but was as attractive as I remember her being, only now embellished slightly by a slight Bohemian dress sense which I did not recall as a fifteen year old.) She went on to say that she will miss her mom terribly but that we should “rejoice as she is now in heaven”.
Another attractive middle-aged women approached me smiling (I’m not used to this) saying, “You probably don’t remember me – I’m Karin”. I didn’t recognise her but remember her well. She always seemed so much older than me whereas now we were both adults. I remember having a bit of a crush on her as a teenager.
After tea, my uncle attempted to make light of the occasion joking that when he dies and is “up there” (pointing skywards) he will something or other.
The afternoon flooded me with emotions that did not abate for a few days. Half of me felt attracted by a reconnection with family I had not seen in a long time. The other half of me felt repelled, almost alienated, by the common thread of religion that bound this family together. I felt like a gang member who had forgotten the secret hand shake.