COMMUNITY SENSE

THOUGHTS ON FUNERALS AND COMMUNITY

Mark R. Wenger

The bleating cell phone cut through our sleep. We were in San Francisco, about halfway through a cross-country family camping trip. The clock said 5:30 a.m. Wide awake, we all awaited the news: My mother-in-law, Orpha Hess Weaver, 79 years old, was not expected to live through the day.

At the time, Orpha’s home was an Alzheimer’s wing of Landis Homes, a retirement community near Lancaster, Pennsylvania. We knew she was not well. The phone call was not unexpected, although the timing was tough to swallow. A few hours later, as we drove east through the lush orchards of California’s Central Valley, we got word of her death. We headed down the long road for home and for saying final good-byes.

Once upon a time I thought funeral rituals were stilted, almost grotesque. Especially the part about parading by an open casket with the dead person in full view. I have since, however, completely changed my mind. And what happened during Orpha’s viewing and funeral convinced me more than ever. Funerals carry an incredible potential for revealing andfor reinforcing that elusive thing we call "community."

Orpha grew up as a Millersville, Pennsylvania town girl. She moved to a farm in the wilds of southern Lancaster County when she got married. Tough as it was, she put down roots. She raised a family of five children with her husband Jason (who died in 1984), attended a local Mennonite congregation, and began knitting a lifetime web of relationships.

We gathered for Orpha’s viewing on July 26, 2004 at the funeral home in Quarryville, Pennsylvania. I braced myself for the evening. How would it go with the rest of the family? Should I—an in-law—stand in the line with the children or just hang around the edges? Would anybody show up? I had gone through countless funeral lines as a pastor, but this was a different experience.

As it turned out, there was no need to worry. For almost three hours people came. I stood in the line with my wife, Kathy, as people who knew and loved Orpha came by. Though the casket lay open less than 10 feet away, there was nothing morbid or macabre about it. This was all about relationships: sharing memories, catching up, introducing, crying, and laughing together. The only problem, it turned out, was the slow-moving line.

I hardly knew anyone, but I met a host of people who knew Orpha and her family well. In the course of the evening I began to feel new esteem for my mother-in-law. Those who had known her for decades spoke about her in ways I’d not heard before. I found myself wishing I had gotten to know her better. I also caught a glimpse of the rewards that accumulate to those who live in one place over time and develop multiple circles of lasting relationships. Priceless.

I met Max, the former county agent who once came to the farm to help the Weaver youngsters raise their prize steers. A real gentleman, now in his 90s, Max said that he just had to come by that evening "to see my kids again." For me, an outsider looking in, it was a touching encounter.

There were the women from Book Club, a group of booklovers who have been reading and discussing books together for more than 50 years. Orpha had been an avid member.

They kept coming—people from church, people from the Solanco Fair, neighbors, friends, relatives, and caregivers.

It was amazing. The invisible fabric of community woven over the years was in plain view. For us in the receiving line, the evening was both exhausting and exhilarating. We were not alone in our grief and our memories. From many different angles everyone had rubbed shoulders with Orpha; gathering on that basis we were bound together. Much the same occurred at the funeral the next day when the people packed out the little country church Orpha had attended for as long as she was able.

Perhaps my description of these events sounds like sentimental nostalgia. Except that it isn’t nostalgia in the sense of longing for something I once knew. Maybe it can be attributed to my age, as I turn 49. Or am I just trying to get on the good side of my in-laws? I don’t think so. There is admiration, to be sure, but it reflects, I think, a universal kind of longing—to belong and be connected to others in layers of interdependence.

Of course the myth of the rugged individualist breaking free from the constraints of the group continues to have a powerful hold on the American psyche. When things get messy or crowded in one place, you are smart to cut your losses and move on. Or if a better deal comes along—job, friends, spouse, congregation—take it. Don’t let moss grow on your life; don’t let anyone else tell you what to do.

But there is an alternate story that tugs at the soul in a more subtle, existential manner: to find oneself and one’s place woven into a web of lasting relationships. That is what I saw on display in the simple rituals surrounding Orpha’s death. Relational capital, acquired and invested in life, becomes especially apparent at death. Money can’t buy it.

From time to time I wonder whether the fast pace of American life and the acids of individualism and consumerism will dissolve the kind of relational treasure I observed when Orpha died. Will I live long enough in one place to develop those deep and varied connections? Will my daughters ever be able to experience the kind of knit-together community life that Grandma knew? I wonder. No communication technology will ever be able to replace what happens in face-to-face relationships carried on over time.

I guess I’m trying to say two simple things: First, we shouldn’t underestimate the amazing potential of funeral rites for affirming the deepest bonds that hold people together. Whether we are the grieving or the friends and comforters, there is something holy that can transpire among people marking together the passing of a loved one.

Then second, I want to offer thanks. Thanks, Orpha, for living and relating to people in a steadfast, honest way. I’m sure there were many times when you wanted to throw up your hands at the parochial attitudes around you. I can imagine that the messiness of small-town community life sometimes felt claustrophobic.

But you stayed connected and extended your life to many. Your death was an occasion that renewed my desire to invest in relationships that matter, relationships that last.

Thanks, Orpha, for the inspiration. I do wish I had gotten to know you better.

—Mark R. Wenger, Waynesboro, Virginia, is copastor of Springdale Mennonite Church as well as Associate Director of the Preaching Institute, Eastern Mennonite Seminary, Harrisonburg, Virginia.