Attending funerals, or simply visiting the graveyard is highly recommended in Islam, to remind one of one's own mortality, and how all life is a gift from the Creator, and may be taken away at any moment. Yet, it’s been a few too many funerals for me lately. And I was not even affected directly, since I wasn't particularly close to any of the deceased. My recent flurry of funeral attendance reminded me of the imams’ admonition to: "Live each day as if it is your last"—not including drinking up the Henessey as if it's going outta style, aiight.:-). In all seriousness, a funeral is a call to that profound aphorism "Practice random acts of kindness, and senseless acts of generosity."
That said, I was a bad girl, and cut class this morning to go to the funeral of a close friend of my mother, named Lou. The funeral was at 11:00 am in Perry Hall, an hour drive from me. The summer course I am taking meets at 9:00 am, so cutting class was the only way I could attend. Arnold Schwarzennager (my physics prof) better understand.
I was glad I went. Ellen, the widow, seemed strengthened by having so many caring friends and relatives around. Nonetheless, it hurt to look in her eyes, and see the loneliness which accompanies the realization that one will never again see one's best friend and beloved companion on this earth. And Lou had, without a doubt, been just that to her.
To me, Lou and Ellen symbolize the best of the Christian faith, walking in the Path of Hazrat Isa (Jesus--AS). They were high school sweethearts who, in defiance of the statistics, married at a young age and stayed married. They played tennis competitively, cooked, danced, socialized, and participated in church and many other activities, always together.
Then Lou developed diabetes at a relatively young age—a surprise for his family, since he was not overweight, led an active lifestyle, and followed a healthy diet, consuming no red meat nor alcohol, and few sweets. The disease progressed unusually rapidly, indicating a significant genetic component.
Following mainstream medical protocols (“if it don’t work, chop it off”), he was soon amputated just below one knee, and became wheelchair bound. Months later, the other leg was taken. Because of this, he was unable to perform many of the household tasks he’d considered his responsibility as “man of the house,” a circumstance which depressed him greatly. He worried how his delicately built, very feminine wife would handle the gamut of household chores, while continuing to work outside the home.
Ellen reassured Lou that everything would be okay. She embarked on a weight training program, which enabled her to perform the tasks he’d done. She was pleasantly surprised to find she could now lift his wheelchair into the car trunk, which she'd previously struggled to do, allowing his inclusion on many outings. As Lou’s health deteriorated, Ellen’s rose to new heights, as she gained strength from lifting weights and won more tennis matches than ever. Her real estate sales soared, she bought a Lexus, and she and Lou moved into a new home. She looked beautiful, vibrant, and full of life. And she stayed with Lou—loving and caring for him till the end.
The pews of St. Joseph’s Catholic Church were two-thirds occupied, a significant turnout in this large church, and testament to the many lives Lou had touched. The service was heavy on Catholic ritual, to which I don't subscribe, but very interesting nonetheless.
My brother and I were there primarily to accompany my mother, who had been close friends with Lou and Ellen since we moved to Baltimore around 1986. My mother then worked as a real estate agent in an all-white brokerage. As a hijabi Muslim woman, she met snide remarks from co-workers, who speculated that she would never make it in real estate “with that thing on her head.” By then, Lou had risen to the position of office manager. He assured her that the nay sayers knew nothing, and that she would excel. He supported and encouraged her every step of the way. Under his tutelage, she rose to become the top selling agent in the office.
As the service continued, communion was offered, and my mother, who seemed a bit dazed and confused was about to take it, when I told her the significance of it. For a Muslim to take communion is about as appropriate as a Baptist to perform the Muslim sujood (putting one's head to the ground in prayer).
My roving eyes noticed a tall, handsome, built bald man in suit and tie sitting in the front pews. He cried openly, albeit in manly fashion, during the service. I appreciate a man who is not ashamed to cry. Later, he served as one of the pall bearers, and I learned that he was Lou's cousin.
Then, it was time to walk to the graveyard, which adjoined the church. In contrast to the emotion-filled church service, the burial was conducted in what seemed to me, a rather cold, business-like fashion. Before I knew it, it was over, and we were marched back to the church. Muslim burials--which entail ghusul, or washing of the corpse by (same sex) family members of the deceased; ritualistic throwing of handfuls of earth into the grave by male family members; and namaz-e-jinaza, or funeral prayer, conducted at the gravesite--are more elaborate and afford more physical contact/proximity with the corpse and with nature, an unmuted reminder to funeral-goers of the inevitability of death, and of the Hereafter.
The burial was followed by a banquet. My brother and I itched to leave, but stayed on a while longer to keep our mother company. As a consequence, we were introduced to Lou and Ellen's relatives and friends.
Lou and Ellen's son, Jeff, who attended the same high school (Perry Hall) as I, looked sharp in a crisp oxford shirt and tie. I'd met him on a previous occasion, and he seemed to be a well-adjusted young man. The joys of his high school graduation were dimmed by his father’s amputation a few years later. At first, the youth was rebellious at the added responsibility resulting from his father's condition, but soon came to cooperate with Ellen in the running of the household. Since the funeral was attended largely by older people, I was pleased to see Jeff surrounded by a group of young friends, offering him support. He greeted us, and said he planned to continue living at home for some while to make sure his mother was okay.
In between sampling hors d'oeuvres, I met Lou's sister, named Eleanor.
(Aside)
Lou's wife = Ellen
Ellen's best friend = another Ellen
Lou's sister = Eleanor
Ellen + Ellen + Eleanor = Mass confusion!
So, I met/greeted the Ellens/Eleanors, all of whom treated my mother as if she were family. Then it was over to the rainbow table.
Eleanor's daughter (ie, Lou's niece), named Christine, is lesbian. She was there with her partner. Both of them are very open about their sexual orientation. Since both Lou and Ellen's families are quite conservative, I wondered how Christine's announcement of her orientation was received and (later) asked my mother about this. My mother said the family did not take the news well initially, but eventually came to accept it.
My mother seemed to know everyone, from friends and relatives of Lou's, to associates of hers from real estate days. She introduced me to Bill Parisi, a multimillionaire banker friend, who used to process her loans for her. Perhaps my prejudice, but he had the character and charisma of, well, a rock.
I was re-introduced to Anne Kemp, a real estate agent friend of my mother’s and Ellen’s, whom I'd met briefly, years prior. Anne was beautiful, with blazing red hair and bright blue eyes. Her husband had passed away a few years earlier. Eleanor’s husband died a little more than a year ago. And now Ellen’s Lou had returned to the Creator. All three men had been relatively young. Undoubtedly, life and death are the dominion of the Creator. And yet, as I left the funeral, I could not help but think that at least some of this suffering and premature aging/death were linked to the Great American diet.
