Portal de Periódicos da CAPES

A Death, A Funeral, A Repast

2020; Wiley; Volume: 68; Issue: 11 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1111/jgs.16678

1532-5415

Paul Rousseau,

Nursing Education, Practice, and Leadership

Lily heaved a phlegmy breath. "Doctor, I told my son Emmett that I want you to come to my funeral. I'd be honored if you would." Lily was 88 years old and dying of ovarian cancer. She was a gaunt figure, with thin skin stretched over bones rising like periscopes. Her face was tired, and her mouth set in a skinny, puckered line, with thick spittle pooled in the corners. Yet her eyes—large chocolate globes peering beneath half-squints—were calm, with flashes of love and acceptance. Her son Emmett, in his early 70s and her only biological child, sat bedside, wringing his hands and tapping his feet. His wife sat on the arm of the chair, cradling his shoulders. "Miss Lily, I'd be honored to come." Fat tears filled my eyes, falling in rivulets down my cheeks. During our many visits, Lily had become like a surrogate mother to me, a mentor of life, if you will, and I soaked up her wisdom. I hugged her, kissed her cheek, and left. That afternoon, she died. The church was crowded, the pews filled. I joined the procession to view Lily's open casket, then found a wobbly metal chair near a door in the vestibule. It was a hot day, the heat hanging like a thick wool blanket. Sweat trickled down my back, as an old air conditioner wrestled with open doors and warm bodies. A large floor fan set up to nudge the steamy air wheezed an asthmatic whine while program pamphlets were folded and fanned. The pastor strolled to the podium, nodding to Lily's family. The church quieted, save the rhythmic pulse of the fan. He introduced himself and said a brief prayer. Then he spoke of Lily's life and her service to people and church. As he spoke, his fervor swelled. He paced back and forth. He lifted an open Bible over his head. His voice rose to a thunderous pitch. He preached a eulogy. The languor of the heat suddenly vanished. The church resonated with reverent repartees: "Uh-huh," "That's right," "Amen," "Praise Jesus." Then, at the end, his voice shriveled to a whisper. "Mourning is the black people's life. But Lily won't be mourning no more, she's goin' to her homecomin,' safe in the hands of the Lord." He closed the Bible, wiped his brow, and sat down. Others followed, speaking of Lily's generosity, humility, love, and friendship. The eulogies were tender and moving, the emotions uninhibited. I listened intently, gathering scraps of Lily's life. I learned she took Spanish moss from oak trees and made pillows for the homeless. I learned she adopted six children—two as babies, two in their single years, two in their teens—as a lone parent. I learned she made and delivered meals, without cost, to "shut-ins" and "folks down on their luck." I learned she marched for civil rights in the 1960s, suffering a deep laceration to her brow from a policeman's baton. The stories and history were humbling and revealing. Then, as the service neared an end, I joined the choir in the singing of Lily's favored hymns, clapping my hands and swaying to the rhythm, piano notes pushing against the walls. Soon I was in a queue of cars winding my way down a country road to a small African American cemetery on a slice of land next to a stream. Along the way, there was an old gas station, a shuttered Baptist church, rusted cars, barns in slow-motion collapse, leaning mailboxes, falling fences, wooden crosses, and a Confederate flag or two. "Jesus Saves" was posted in one yard. It seemed an exhausted, timeworn land. The cemetery, though, was surrounded by an ornate iron fence that spiraled to the heavens. The grass was manicured, the tips colored with a hint of sun-bleached yellow. Plastic and live flowers decorated many of the graves, and American flags topped what appeared to be veterans' tombstones. People parked their cars and ambled to the gravesite, the sun wetting their brows with droplets of slick sweat. The pastor spoke briefly for fear the heat would overcome the "older folks." Then Emmett laid a flower on Lily's casket. Sobbing stirred the humid air. There was grief, but there was trust—in God, in an afterlife, in a reunion once more. A tiny woman in a wheelchair next to me grabbed my hand and pulled me close. "Doctor, with all that us black folks been through, there has to be somethin' better than this life on earth." She smiled, and I nodded. Emmett told me of a repast at Lily's house, a potluck, and asked me to attend. "Don't worry about bringing something, it's okay. You're our guest. You just follow me in your car." As I walked toward the graveled parking lot, one tombstone with a weather-worn inscription caught my attention: "Free at last." The date appeared to be 1868. I wondered, free from what? Slavery? I stood for a few moments, transfixed, then continued to my car. I followed Emmett to Lily's house, a three-room cottage built of rough-hewn timber sitting beneath a large live oak tree. In her house, there was a cross on one wall and a painting of Jesus on another. A worn Bible sat open on the kitchen countertop. Several collapsible tables were set up in the living room to hold the abundance of food. Emmett assured my comfort, introducing me to Lily's extended family and friends, embracing me with his arms. "So you were her doctor? Thank you for takin' care of her." "Nice to meet you, Doctor." "Thank you for comin'." "Lily spoke highly of you." I do not know why, but I felt undeserving of such welcome and praise. I looked around the room. These were the people—the ones in their 60s, 70s, and 80s—forced to sit in the back of the bus, use "Coloreds Only" bathrooms, and endure cross burnings and lynchings and the fear of the Ku Klux Klan. Yet they welcomed me with favor and affection. I stayed for an hour, said my goodbyes, then left, promising Emmett we'd stay in touch. As I drove the backcountry home, I thought of the horrific struggles of Lily's generation and how Martin Luther King Jr.'s prophetic words—that one day we'll be judged by the content of our character rather than the color of our skin—are yet to be fulfilled, for old prejudices linger still. Then I thought of how I, a white man, was graciously accepted by an assembly of African Americans that, years earlier, suffered horribly at the hands of bigoted and biased whites. The contradiction was emotional. Overwhelmed, I pulled to the side of the road and stopped in front of the "Jesus Saves" sign and peered in the rearview mirror, my eyes red with tears, my "whiteness" a bit dimmer.