I love to be surprised by my children, but I was kind of hoping the surprises would stop while my family attended a recent funeral.
Nope.
My wonderful grandmother, the toughest woman I’ve ever met, finally let Father Time win earlier this month. She was the regal age of 96.
As we waited for the funeral to begin, my boys — both under the age of five — joined with the other young children in attendance in a united effort to terrify all of the parents. My older son kept up the curious, cringe-worthy questions that he had been positing since we had learned of the death, questions I was sure would earn him a stern tsk-tsking from a great aunt or mortician.
“Where’s great grandma now? Is she in the box? Why is she in the box? Is it comfortable in the box? Is she still dead?”
Meanwhile my two-year-old was up and down the halls playing a game loosely based on hide and go seek, at one point making a beeline into the chapel on what looked like a sure collision course with the casket.
After pulling my son’s parachute just before impact I earned a nod from another dad who was also keeping a sharp eye on his brood. We shared a quiet chuckle, acknowledging how much life changes when you become a parent.
Life is different, we agreed, and yet ironically the day-to-day is always the same. Whether you’re at a Tim Hortons, on a playground or in a funeral home, you’re focused on one thing and one thing only: trying desperately to hold back the chaos and destruction. Kids don’t discriminate, we concluded, even at a funeral.
This thought gave me some concern because in just a matter of minutes I was slated to give the eulogy to start the service. My boys had never seen me speaking in public like that before. How would they react? Would my youngest son jump the pews to try to give me one of his patented flying hugs? Would my older son keep the questions flowing in front of the packed chapel?
Thankfully none of those things happened. The eulogy went well enough — frequent readers of my column aren’t going to believe this, but I managed to fit a few jokes into it. I was later told that my grandma would have been proud. Looking back, It was one of the great honours of my life.
As I returned to my seat, not yet knowing exactly how it had been received, I landed into one of those famous hugs and held it for the remainder of the service. It was the perfect place to be. As I held him, my youngest son was content to spend the nearly 30-minute service quietly playing with a sticker book, first loading the entire page onto his arm before finding an even better spot for the collection: my face.
He barely made a peep, except to ask me “Why are you singing, dad?” and then “why are you laughing, dad?” during a rousing rendition of “Beautiful Saviour” that was led by an organist whose sheet-music was apparently missing the last line of every verse. They were good questions, and proof once again that laughter is the best medicine.
My oldest son, meanwhile, watched everything calmly and intently, breaking his silence only after we were back in the car on the way to the cemetery.
“Is great grandma still dead? Why did you help put the box in the big car? Is great grandma still in the box? Did you put the box in the car slowly or fast?”
When we arrived at the burial plot my son quieted down again and took to investigating the scene in silence. As we gathered around the grave I watched him inch closer and closer so that he could see into the hole, reach down and touch the planks we were standing on. I still wasn’t sure if he was understanding the whole thing.
But then, as the short ceremony ended, a vase was passed around with dozens of roses. I put one on my grandma’s casket and then asked my son if he wanted to do the same. To my surprise he said yes, and I watched him slowly, confidently and respectfully approach the casket and lay his rose right next to mine.
It turns out I was wrong: the children did know that this was something important, they did know that these moments required a different type of behaviour. They nailed it, and it was a surprise — a wonderful surprise. When it was all over I realized how much strength it gave me to have them there.
My grandma was the mighty trunk on our strong and gnarly family tree. To me her greatest legacy was the big, tight-knit family she headed, from her own children right down to the beautifully rascally great-grandchildren who didn’t really know her but knew that she was a woman who commanded our love and respect.
She loved children. It would have given her great joy to see the kids all there at her memorial tea party, building Lego towers and knocking over potted plants.
Life goes on. Enjoy the surprises.
Andy Prest is the sports editor for the North Shore News and writes a biweekly humour/lifestyle column. He can be reached via email at [email protected].
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