On a sunny January morning, we slowly walk into a large, unfamiliar church. Several mourners
sit near the front, and we pause in the foyer to greet the few people we know. My second husband and I are here to support his cousin and her family because her Portuguese mother-in-law Amelia died on December 30th. This 82-year-old widow was struck with terminal cancer just before Christmas and
mercifully didn’t linger.
After marrying Eric 12 years ago, this is the fourth funeral of his extended family I’ve attended. We briefly hug the mourning couple and then take our seats. Being a practicing Anglican, I am comfortable with Christian rituals and think I know what to expect.
Sitting in our pew, I study the décor of this Catholic church in the Little Portugal neighbourhood of Toronto. There are large statues of Mary and Jesus on either side of the sanctuary; 14 large stations of the cross in bas-relief adorn the side aisles; lovely decoration on the ceiling; lots of other carvings and gold leaf. Come to think of it, this is the first time I’ve ever attended a service in a Roman Catholic church. On my overseas travels I’ve visited countless places (including Saint Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican) with holy water near the door, votive candles flickering to one side, and an ornate altar.
Today a woman sits at an electric organ, accompanying herself while singing in Portuguese, English, and Latin.
I have never met Amelia, the deceased. Judging by the significant number of attendees that join us she was well-loved. A dark-haired priest in his 40s busies himself preparing candles, microphones, and items needed during the mass. Precisely at 10 o’clock he begins a procession from the back of the church, and we all stand in respect.
A casket covered by a white damask cloth is slowly wheeled up the centre aisle by two employees of the funeral home. Six male family members (I recognize two grandsons) solemnly accompany the casket, while gently resting their gloved hands on its cover. Immediate family members follow and take their seats in the front rows.
Sitting through this hour-long service conducted in Portuguese and Latin, with perhaps 15% of the content in English, with no programme to follow, honouring a complete stranger, I feel detached – an observer rather than participant. After other funerals, I’ve heard non-religious attendees complain, “It was all just long prayers. They barely mentioned his (or her) name. Too rigid and impersonal!” Today I am feeling rather indifferent, too.
I let my mind wander.
The night before I’d rewatched the movie, Eat Pray Love, in which the heroine travels abroad for a year attempting to recover her equilibrium after divorce. She spends months in an ashram in India and then studies with a medicine man in Bali – just two of the innumerable spiritual practices existing on our planet. Every person alive must cope with the death of loved ones and accept the
inevitability of their own death. Does every religion embrace the concept of afterlife? What happens when we die? Does the soul transition to another state? Can we talk to and be guided by those we’ve loved who are now on “the other side”?
I reminisce about my own parents’ Anglican funerals – one on a grey November day, the other on a lovely June afternoon. Days after the latter, I sat on a bench near the lake where Dad sailed for thousands of hours and felt his presence. Goosebumps galore.
Contemplating the fact that we all die soothes my frustration of listening to a service I cannot understand. What matters is the comfort this end-of-life ritual brings to those present. Before administering the host, the priest explains, “Only those of you who are baptised Roman Catholics, who have had First Communion, are able to receive.” I welcome this clarity and settle into
the pew while most attendees line up in the aisle.
My personal comfort level shoots up the minute Amelia’s son approaches the lectern. He reads a beautifully composed eulogy which describes her origins in the Azores, her marriage and immigration to Canada, and the trajectory of her life. With just the right amount of humour to lift our hearts. I vicariously come to know the remarkable woman whose picture graces the entrance to the church. She was generous, loving, resourceful, uncomplaining, and talented – with countless
accomplishments. Amelia was certainly among us.
How glad I am that I decided to accompany Eric today. Attending this funeral is all about supporting her family and close friends who are facing an Amelia-shaped hole in their lives.
Giving grief this collective outlet makes a huge difference to those left behind.