The casket was rolled in. The piano played funeral hymns. And there I was, behind a pulpit, poised before a congregation that was standing-room only.
There were people standing in the back of the room, lining the walls of the chapel, spilling from the balcony, filing out open doors, sitting on windowsills, or on the floor. They were four and five deep.
And they were all looking at me.
When I was a child, the old timers didn’t call them “funerals.” I never heard an elderly person in my family call it a “funeral.” They called them “homegoings.”
A homegoing is very different from a funeral. Funeral means “goodbye.” Homegoing means “hello.” It’s all about how you look at it.
My people were country people. They were simple, rural people, accustomed to living around large animals. They were church people, with scripture-verse embroidery hanging on their walls, and muddy boots on the porch. They preferred saying hello rather than goodbye.
I looked at the casket. My cousin by marriage lay there, draped in a decorative blanket. It was so quiet you could have heard an iPad drop.
And well, actually, that’s what everyone DID hear. Because I dropped the iPad that contained my speech. And I nearly toppled into the choir loft when I bent to retrieve it.
This is not my first funeral. I have been playing music at funerals since I was 9 years old. When you are born with the curse of being a mediocre musician, your main gig is weddings, funerals, and the occasional grand opening of used car dealerships.
At my grandfather’s funeral, I sang “Amazing Grace.” I played “I’ll Fly Away” at my father’s service.
But this service was different. Namely, because this comes at a strangely pivotal time in my life.
Yesterday was my birthday. And New Year’s Eve was tomorrow. It was like standing between life and death, perched on opposite sides of me. As though life had converged upon itself, and a funeral runs through it.
I cleared my throat at the pulpit. And I felt like an 11-year-old boy. The same 11-year-old who trembled when he sang of his father’s departure. Whose voice quavered with tears as he sang about flying away.
And oddly, even as a grown man in a cheap sportcoat, I was undergoing the same feeling I experienced on the day they laid my father down.
I felt alive. Really alive. I can’t explain it.
I looked at a congregation of mourners, and I could feel my heart thrumming beneath my chest. My pulse in my jaw. The coolness of my breath in my lungs.
And I was overcome. I am overcome even now, writing this for the ten people who care to read it.
I am overcome because on the eve of this New Year, I am struck with how precious my life is. How fleeting. How flickeringly brief. And I realize that you already know this about your own life. I just happen to be a slow learner.
And I also realize that I have a choice here. I can either look to the old year, staring at all the crap strewn behind me, and bid the old me a tearful goodbye.
Or I can say hello to what comes next.
Sean Dietrich is a columnist and novelist known for his commentary on life in the American South. He has authored nine books and is the creator of the “Sean of the South” blog and podcast.
The views and opinions expressed here are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the policy or position of 1819 News. To comment, please send an email with your name and contact information to Commentary@1819News.com.
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