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Consumed by my loss, I didn't notice
the hardness of the pew where I sat. I was at the funeral of my dearest
friend - my mother. She finally had lost her long battle with cancer. The hurt
was so intense; I found it hard to breathe at times.
Always supportive, Mother clapped loudest at my school plays, held a box of
tissues while listening to my first heartbreak, comforted me at my
father's death, encouraged me in college, and prayed for me my entire life.
When mother's illness was diagnosed, my sister had a new baby, and my brother
had recently married his childhood sweetheart, so it fell on me, the
27-year-old middle child without entanglements, to take care of her. I counted
it an honor.
"What now, Lord?" I asked sitting in church. My life stretched out before me
as an empty abyss. My brother sat stoically with his face toward the cross
while clutching his wife's hand. My sister sat slumped against her husband's
shoulder, his arms around her as she cradled their child. All so deeply
grieving, no one noticed I sat alone.
My place had been with our mother, preparing her meals, helping her walk,
taking her to the doctor, seeing to her medication, reading the Bible together.
Now she was with the Lord. My work was finished, and I was alone.
I heard a door open and slam shut at the back of the church. Quick footsteps
hurried along the carpeted floor. An exasperated young man looked around
briefly and then sat next to me. He folded his hands and placed them on his
lap. His eyes were brimming with tears. He began to sniffle. "I'm late," he
explained, though no explanation was necessary.
After several eulogies, he leaned over and commented,"Why do they keep calling
Mary by the name of'Margaret'?" "Oh, because that was her name, Margaret. Never
Mary. No one called her Mary", I whispered. I wondered why this person
couldn't have sat on the other side of the church. He interrupted my grieving
with his tears.
"No", he insisted, as several people glanced over at us whispering, "Her name is
Mary, Mary Peters." "That isn't who this is," I replied. "Isn't this the
Lutheran church?" he asked. "No, the Lutheran church is across the street.Oh!
I believe you're at the wrong funeral, Sir," I replied.
The solemnness of the occasion mixed with the realization of the mans'
mistake bubbled up inside me and came out as laughter. I cupped my hands
over my face,hoping it would be interpreted as sobs.
The creaking pew gave me away. Sharp looks from other mourners only made the
situation seem more hilarious. I peeked at the bewildered, misguided man
seated beside me. He was laughing, too as he glanced around, deciding it
was too late for an uneventful exit. I imagined Mother laughing.
At the final "Amen", we darted out a door and into the parking lot. "I do
believe we'll be the talk of the town," he smiled. He said his name was Rick,
and since he had missed his aunt's funeral, asked me out for a cup of coffee.
That afternoon began a lifelong journey for me with this man who attended the
wrong funeral, but was in the right place. A year after our meeting, we
were married at a country church where he was the assistant pastor. This time
we both arrived at the same church, right on time.
In my time of sorrow, God gave me laughter. In place of loneliness, God gave
me love. This past June we celebrated our twenty-second wedding anniversary.
Whenever anyone asks us how we met, Rick tells them,"Her mother and my Aunt
Mary introduced us, and it's truly a match made in heaven."
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