As I mentioned in the last blog, I attended a funeral on Saturday. At the time I was solely looking forward to the opportunity to perform with a talented group of singers, and while that was as satisfying as I was hoping, much more important things happened. 

On the way to the funeral, I started to think about the first funeral I ever attended (that I can remember). I was young, maybe 12 or 13, and Mom told me I was going with her to a funeral for a distant friend of hers. Of course, I could think of a million other things I wanted to be doing, but when the woman who feeds you and cares for you tells you to do something, you say, "how high?"
We didn't actually attend the funeral, just the burial ceremony. The deceased was a young mother who lost her battle against cancer. She left behind a husband and her daughter and son. The son was just a couple years younger than me. As the pastor was saying some words over the coffin, the son was just standing there with an almost bored look on his face. I remember wondering why he wasn't crying, or even being engaged. Did he not understand that his mom died? Then, I wondered if I even understood. It was in that moment that I caught my first glimpse of denial, guilt, anger, loss, my own mortality and the mortality of those I love. I left that burial with thoughts that weighed a million pounds.

Walter's funeral was a completely different matter. Walter was an older gentleman that had led an incredibly impactful life. He taught and performed music his entire life, and the pews (and the stage) were just as full of his students as his family. All the testimonials spoke to his ability to affect people's lives in a positive way, and there was more than one occasion where there wasn't a dry eye in the sanctuary.
At one point, one if his past students, now an adult in his late 30's, got up and spoke to how Walter had changed his life. His involvement in Walter's choirs turned into him becoming an honorary member of his family. He talked about how there was one particular song that he loved that he always tried to convince Walter to let them perform, but Walter always said no. They only ever performed it once, and it was at a funeral for a coworker and friend of Walter's. The student then said he wanted to sing it, all these years later, one last time, for Walter's funeral. He sang without accompaniment. He didn't have the greatest voice ever. He was pitchy, he wasn't on beat and his voice wavered and failed him many times. And because of those reasons, it was perfect.
I was overcome with emotion. I had probably never said a single word to Walter, and yet I was in a position to take part in understanding who he was and what he had accomplished. How could I feel so connected to a man I barely knew? How was it that I felt connected to his family and his students, although I will most likely never see them again? And, most confusingly, how was it that I left that funeral with less weight on my shoulders than I had come in with?

Funerals are important. Yes, they're important to honor and celebrate the life of the deceased, and yes, it's an opportunity to remind oneself of mortality and the fragility of life. But I think funerals are most important to remember that the most important things in life can't be seen or heard or touched, that all humans aren't as unalike as we may think, and that even death can be the catalyst for life.