My cousin, in the year before she died, was talking to me on the phone from England.
She would call to update me on her cancer, how much it hurt, how exhausted she was, how worried about her children. I would listen, struggling to imagine her life, remembering only our friendship as young girls who never once contemplated our deaths.
“I’m tired of complaining,” she said to me “the fighting, the anger the disappointments…”
“I don’t mind you baring your soul to me,” I reassured her, “as long as it alleviates some of your pain.”
“But it doesn’t,” she said sadly “I need to get away from the cancer worldview, it’s destroying me.”
I nodded my head in agreement; it was.
“How about I just concentrate on dying well?’ she asked aloud. “Dying to the glory of God instead of living to the glory of God while seething inside?”
This was her first step towards accepting what was to befall her.
A step towards making every day her personal best.
Our conversations became softer without the serrated edge of rage.
As Christians we should have a different attitude towards death, very often we don’t.
I mean, show me a physical and emotionally healthy person who looks forward to dying?
Who takes it in her stride?
We should have a different attitude towards death than our secular counterparts but I still grow hot under the collar when Daughts talks glibly about,
“When you and Pops die we,” referring to her husband, “get the land don’t we, since we live here?”
A couple of years ago at church our priest talked to us about planning our funerals.
I really didn’t want to go into that much detail…
until I remembered my parents didn’t either and I was left making all sorts of decisions I’d rather they’d made before departing this life.
We reluctantly took the packet that was handed to us filled with questions ranging from pall bearers to food, music to prayers, bury or burn, scatter of inter and where did we want our final resting place to be?
Our priest officiating this difficult topic at Sunday school was quite adamant,
“We are all equal in the eyes of God; the pall covering the coffin hid from view the financial state of the family; was the coffin pine or oak were the family rich or poor?”
I’d never considered the role a pall played!
‘Used fence slats or mahogany,’ I thought, my mind wandering irreverently…
He continued,
“I will bury anyone who asks, regardless of the circumstance of death because the funeral is for the family and friends, the deceased is judged by God and only God.”
At home Daughts read over our hasty effort,
“You’re not wanting to be cremated…?” she asked with a grimace.
In England cremation is common-place, church graveyards are full especially in the cities so it makes sense.
“Yes! so don’t buy an expensive coffin, a winding sheet will do!” I think I was joking, maybe sackcloth would be better!
She asked again, with a shudder,
“You’re not wanting to be cremated are you? Really?”
“Of course,” I said not adding that apparently family can trump final wishes as in the case of my paternal grandmother who wanted to be buried in a churchyard. My parents cremated her and the ashes were scattered in a public cemetery with no marker, just co-ordinates.
Sad this as she and I loved walking through graveyards and reading headstones and drinking an afternoon cup of tea from a flask with a sandwich in hand.
So what was the point of filling out this form that I nearly left behind?
“The dead person can speak to those left behind for the last time through his or her choice of bible passage and music,” I quoted the priest.
“You’re morbid Mums,”Daughts said.
“Don’t you think it would be much easier on you if its all spelled out?
“you may never have planned a funeral before,
“or know what my wishes are,
“or where I want to be buried or scattered,
“or what hymns to sing,
“or what photos or videos not to show,
“or what food to serve.”
“That’s a lot of instruction reaching out from the grave Mums!” Daughts laughed.
No comment.