I didn’t know the woman who had died, or her friend who had made the arrangements. That’s not odd. What was odd was that the man who made the arrangements ended up being the only person who came.
The deceased had been born, lived most of her life, and passed away in Georgia, but had told her family and her friends (including the friend who made the arrangements) that she wanted her ashes buried in here in Schodack. She passed away nearly a year ago, and there were memorial services for her down South with her many relatives. At this time, the family was ready to have her final requests honored, and so her dear friend brought her ashes to Schodack. And we did a burial service (me attired, of course, in my funeral suit, which, as I’ve said earlier, makes me look a little like a character from The Matrix).
Just him. And the funeral director. And me.
And a gentle breeze through the still-damp grass, and the birds chirping pleasantly in a counterpoint to the prayers, and a view of the Hudson, meandering its way south.
It may have been one of the sweetest, most Spirit-filled memorial services I’ve been privileged to do. There was something so honest and gentle about it.
When was the last time you were surprised by a quiet moment of grace?