One by one the men in uniform make their way to the front and speak with such soft, tired voices that nobody beyond the out-of-place couch in the front row could possibly hear them. They ignore the microphone completely, saying their seemingly silent words with adequate formality before pacing off. The five long rows of plastic chairs behind the couch in the reception hall of the funeral home, and almost all are full of people fidgeting in the silence that should be filled with formality.
The three people on the couch, a man and two women, recline awkwardly, as though they would prefer the straight-backed and uncomfortable chairs on which the rest of us are seated. They are siblings, and the brother sits with his body square to the front, the thinning hair facing me no indicator of his feelings. The only part of him that moves is his head, swiveled slightly to the left where the lectern is situated, sensing that the distraction taking place there is only temporary and ready to turn his attention back to the front at a moment’s notice. The sisters, on the other hand, have devoted themselves entirely to the diversion, nodding at each stiff-backed man as he paces up, and shaking a little with each salute before he measures his steps away.
The sisters struggle to maintain composure, all the while knowing there is little point. This is only the beginning. The pictures in front can’t encapsulate the man they lost; the young man in white uniform grinning out from his wooden frame looks nothing like the man remembered by the saluting, buttoned men or the father they talked with just last week. Three young men in white come forward and the two without fancy hats open a flag with jerky, hesitant motions. There is miscommunication, and one opens it upside-down at first before correcting his mistake. In the absence of a coffin to drape it over, they stretch it between them while “Taps” is played with due ceremony, and I recall that my father told me the body is waiting its turn to be cremated. I imagine his coffin, one in a long line of wooden casings, being carried inexorably toward the fire on a conveyor belt, and by the time I look back to the front the flag is folded and being presented to the middle sibling by the man with ornaments on his chest and a brim to his hat. We are told that Roger made the red more vibrant with his commitment, the white more pure, and starry field more filled with stars, but from where I sit the colors all seem pretty standard.
The three of them march away and the sisters blow their noses on tissues issued from their brother’s pocket. I, too, pass out tissues to those around me while the pastor makes his way to the podium. He braces himself against the fragile framework of wood in preparation and launches into what he needs to say. The portable pulpit doesn’t seem ready for the weight placed against it as he speaks into the microphone. His amplified voice seems unnatural compared to the regimented softness of the preceding ceremony. There is no option but to listen as he declares his gladness that the military acknowledges God’s presence in such a way. There is no escape as he expresses his unhappiness with the government distancing itself from God. “It is good to see the men and women of the military know God exists, even if they are only allowed to say it at times such as these.”
The pastor says Roger was not a religious man. He says he didn’t attend church, and that he didn’t know his bible. But that won’t stop him from saving Roger, for everyone knows Psalm 23. He talks about the Lord’s shepherding and about lying in green pastures. He takes comfort in His rod and staff, though I’m not sure how. I have never found rods comforting, and from what I can tell, neither did Roger. The lectern trembles, and threatens to crack under the weight he places on it, and his voice pervades the room from the microphone.
But the women in front take solace in familiar words. Their tears continue, but they shake less as they relax a little. The youngest moves her mouth along with the pastor, and the middle child looks a little more content. The brother remains still, the back of his head still devoid of emotion. We are informed that Roger, despite his effort to hide it, was in fact a good Christian. He did the things Jesus liked. He was even a carpenter. His simple mind and brute strength provided for his family, which was something he liked doing, and he at least had the good sense to bring his children up Christian, even if he didn’t follow the rules too well himself. The man up front says he embodied the spirit, if not the letter of the religion, and the people on the couch who knew him well are happy.
People get up and talk about their experiences with him. A grandchild talks of going home drunk and vomiting in the driveway, and Roger just saying “we’ve all been there.” I recall a story told earlier about Roger at a baseball game drinking every beer anyone would buy him (since he wasn’t the one driving back) before being dumped on his lawn, senseless and with his stern wife in the light of the doorway offering no salvation. His friend of seventy years talks about Roger showing up to work and talking for the first hour over a pot of coffee before getting to work on the house. Afterward there was always beer.
He built his own retirement house, planning it so as to take in the most light through the main windows, and structuring it with enough solidity to withstand harsh Wisconsin winters. There are pictures up by the makeshift altar of him standing on the framework, supported high above the ground by a few narrow boards, and yet he looks more comfortable there than the preacher does talking about him, having regained his flimsy podium from the heartfelt speakers. He admits he didn’t know Roger well, and that the things he says come courtesy of the youngest daughter, but that doesn’t prevent him from reaffirming his knowledge that Roger is looking down from a better place because he was “Jesus’s kind of guy.” I suppress a grin, thinking of Jesus getting blasted, dropping out of high school and fighting in the Navy while never attending church. The occupants of the couch don’t seem concerned with the contradiction.
We are reminded of the fact that Roger need not be forgotten, that he lives on in our memories and actions, and this elicits another set of tears from the daughters while the son hands them some Kleenex from the box near him. The grandchildren around me let a bit of emotion run down their cheeks, and look at me as though I should be partaking in the sorrow. The pastor declares that to be the end of the ceremony, and I am among the first to rise. I sidle past bent knees out the end of the row and make my way to the couch up front make sure my dad is doing well. His cheeks are devoid of the salt from dried tears, and he looks around as his sisters leave, as though wondering where he should go next. He spots a relative he has yet to greet, and goes to do his duty.
Roger is well and truly gone, it seems, with nothing left but the wood he worked and the people he changed. And as a pile of scrap is set ablaze, so too is he. To hear the pastor say it with all his authority and amplification, Roger is embracing the Lord and at peace with everything, and it is good that it brings comfort to hear it said. But to hear those who knew him he would be more at home with beer and boisterousness, good company and a family to care about, so as the pastor leaves, his job completed, I follow my dad to talk more about the grandfather I seem to know so little about.
No comments:
Post a Comment