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I almost didn't go to the funeral today. We met my parents for breakfast, and I had all but decided that I shouldn't go, since I was going with the wrong attitude. As I watched my parents drive off, I changed my mind. We raced home, I took the world's fastest shower and we took off. Too late for the final wake, we went directly to the church, and got there just as the casket was carried into the church.

I saw my mom and dad through the door, and we went in down the side aisle. My dad gave me a very sad smile, and I felt he wasn't really surprised, but glad to see us there. We sat behind my parents and one of my aunts, and next to two of my cousins.

From where I was sitting, all I could see of my newly widowed aunt was the back of her head and shoulders. She was flanked on either side by her two children; one slightly younger than me and the other about 20 years older (it's quite a story).

I don't know what started it. The soft, sad music might have helped, but suddenly I stopped thinking of how much I didn't like that woman. What I saw was a woman suddenly alone. After nearly 60 years of involvement (like I said, a long story), she was alone. I felt her fear, her sadness. I suddenly felt like I was sitting in that front pew, and it was one of my parents in that horridly cold cloth draped box on wheels. And the tears began. Not for her exactly, not for her kids exactly, but for loneliness and sadness in general.

When it ended, and the funeral directors came to wheel the casket out of the church, I felt her inner cry, I saw her hold back from clutching at the box, not yet wanting it to go, knowing that as soon as she allowed it to go, she would no longer be married. She no longer had her husband. It was just her. All alone. I wanted to stop the box from leaving, I wanted it all to not be sad.

I looked toward the front of the church. Catholic churches can be so gawdy. This one was completely decked out. Two days ago it was alive in celebration of the coming of the Son. And today it was filled with sadness of the passing of one. I should know better, but I can't make myself celebrate death as one going on to be with God. Sometimes I can eventually get to that place, but not for awhile. The warm celebratory feeling of the alter was in stark contrast to the cold echoey pews.

Before we left for the cemetery, I took several long minutes hugging my favorite aunt, and my mom, and looking at the building from which we all exited. Churches, especially old churches, have seen so much, have celebrated so much history. So many new beginnings, so many endings. So many wonderful celebrations, births, baptisms, first communions, confirmations, weddings. And so many sad endings.

This particular church, so sad today,

held a particular celebratory event just over 50 years ago, when my parents walked down that aisle together.

In many ways, this building I sat in and cried in today was really my beginning. And I guess it was so very sad because I just don't want my parents to ever end.

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