Eulogy

The church doors are tall and heavy. I forgot how they feel to pull open and how much additional effort it takes to hold open for someone else. It has been years since I’d last been here and that time was for my uncle’s third wedding. To me, weddings and funerals are much the same, albeit with different vibes amongst the crowd.

I don’t think of myself as an anxious person, but I can’t think of any words worth saying to any of these people, particularly in such a circumstance. I worry I’ll say the wrong thing because I don’t know how to grieve the way everyone else thinks I should.

The faces, while familiar, seem different and old. I often struggle to realize how, outside of my interpretation of time passing through my life, other people age too. For some, they appear as if time has been harsh on them, moving faster and with turbulence. It takes an additional moment to match names to faces as I make my way through the chatting groups blocking my way.

People from my childhood and vague memories of them flood my head. At my grandfather’s 80th birthday, Mike Magnuson got drunk and spilled his cocktail on his second wife. He looks as if he has rarely spilled a sip since.

I remember once feeling closeness with second cousins who are now merely strangers. At a family reunion when I was twelve, a group of us snuck around the outside of the nearby driving range and found hundreds of golf balls. We filled our pockets and later, our parents’ vehicles. Thinking they had value, we were sure we had found a gold mine. All our parents made us dump them out near their parking lot on our way home. I never spent significant time with them again, and although I never took up golfing, I still have two balls in a junk drawer at home.

My aunt’s friend arrives and greets my cousins. I distinctly remember her daughter being my first crush at a cousin’s graduation party when I was fifteen. My earliest memory of a sundress, I remember clarifying with several cousins to ensure we indeed were not related. They laughed at me and soon thereafter made fun of my blushing. Last I heard, she was still single, but had three kids and was still living with her parents. I have no intention of finding out for myself, though.

Sweat droplets fall inside my shirt, and I feel my skin getting warm. I could have benefited from a few less drinks the night before, but I’m confident they kept the thermostat warm enough to be a lizard terrarium for the old people wandering the halls.

I walk around the corner to where I thought I remembered the bathroom being and find the kitchen. Old ladies move luncheon pans of under-seasoned potatoes and dry looking pasta salads from the fridge to the serving area. Only here can I see such an assortment of food, but not even a hint of a smell to compliment it. I wonder how people can feel hungry at a funeral; I hadn’t thought about food since yesterday.

Continuing past the kitchen, I find the bathroom I remembered being this way. Pictures line the walls of youth groups, men’s groups, and Christmas pageants. I briefly wished my parents had pushed me to be involved in church and thought about how much that could have meant to my grandfather. He would have bragged to his friends at coffee each day about his grandson in the picture of the youth group at the food shelf or the ones of the mission trips all over the country.

I find a side door and creep into the family staging area, signified by the handwritten construction paper. The emptiness of the several designated pews feels welcoming to me as I mentally prepare. I flatten my shirt and re-tuck it in, then straighten my tie and tie clip. As I sit in the pew, my pants become high waters, and I adjust them accordingly. My shirt then pulls up, and I become frustrated with the chain reaction. I try to find the sweet spot of a shirt tucked neatly and pants sitting where they are supposed to and wonder how the hell anyone ever gets this just right.

Miscellaneous church members, who may or may not have known my grandfather, pray by themselves, scattered across pews on the far side of the church. To me, it felt like the greatest possible sign of respect for a stranger, to be present, up close and personal, at their funeral.

I shut off my phone; I never trust just silencing it. I remember my grandfather telling me to put the phone away at the dinner table and smile. I wish to have made more memories with him.

In the gathering area, the chattering brings silence to my thoughts, but in the worship space, the quietness is loud. My thoughts jump from one thing I’d rather be doing to the next. There is irony in my wishing it were over.

But here I am, about to give another eulogy. It is an elected position, really. Once you give one, they automatically nominate you to give another, and they repeat this process until someone else has to give one for you.

My sweaty fingertips squeeze the folded paper in my pocket, and it feels soggy. The ink has surely bled and become messy. Just because I’m willing to do it doesn’t mean I can’t be nervous just as anyone else would be.

The pastor smiles with encouragement. I look back blankly and trudge toward the podium. I fear I will miss a step and trip, providing the audience something to talk about at the bar later in the afternoon. Rug burn on my forehead and blood speckled down my cheeks would certainly distract from the words I’m about to deliver.

I approach the podium and crinkle the stiff pages in the binder to find my place, then sigh softly to slow my breathing. Their eyes land on me, and I can feel their weight. I force a smile and begin.