My Mac died in Malaysia but was revived once I brought it to the Providence Apple Store.
Just like Lazarus.
Sadly, it died again two weeks later. So I am at a loss.
But thanks to us being an Apple family my daughter is letting me use hers to write this post.
I write about life. And I write about death.
I am home now. Visiting Mom and family for the summer in Rhode Island.
Read three obituaries in the last week. I either knew the person or knew the family of the person. It’s a small state. The place where I spent my formative years.
If I read the obituaries in Dallas (lived there twelve years) I would not know the folks. Sure, there would be the odd, unexpected death of someone in the community that I would know. But it would not be the norm.
I lived in Southern California for quite a few years. Same. Wouldn’t know a soul in the obits.
But once you come back home. Well, that’s different. You know everybody. Especially when you grew up in a state that has a population of one million.
Yes, I once was one in a million. #Truth.
I was attending the funeral of my best friend’s father-in-law yesterday. He was ninety years old. A lovely man who led a truly wonderful life. Nine children and twenty-four grandchildren. Also great grand children in the mix. A family man. A faith filled man. A community man.
I stood outside the Portuguese church waiting for the doors to open. I was told we couldn’t enter because there was another funeral taking place.
Standing with others who were also waiting to fill the pews for the next funeral Mass.
The doors of the church finally opened.
There was a hearse outside on the street with its doors open ready to receive the blessed remains.
I spied a teddy bear in the back of the hearse. But I was still not prepared for what I saw next.
The smallest coffin I have ever seen came out of the church doors. It only required four pall bearers. I almost gasped. My throat closed. I looked at another couple who was also waiting to go into the church. And I could only glance at them and whisper, “Oh, God!”
Watching the young mother broke my heart.
The mourners of the young child left and the mourners of the old man entered the church.
The whole stinking process is sad.
It made me think.
The loss of a beloved father. No matter how old.
But still. A feeling of gratefulness.
Because his death was one of the best scenarios.
He left this world.
After serving his country.
Meeting and marrying the love of his life.
Bringing eight fabulous sons and a daughter into the world.
Starting his own business.
Being a community member.
Involved in his parish.
Caring about others.
I left the funeral service with sadness because I understand what it means to lose a father.
But I also left with an appreciation of a life well lived. And I sort of felt okay.
Not everyone has the same opportunity. For whatever reason.
Bless us all.
Just Being Mary 