The Funeral

About 6:45 AM on Monday, March 26, one of the men from our church knocked on our door. He asked if Joel could drive his daughter (she’s about our age) to the hospital. Several weeks earlier, the church had prayed for her both in the hospital and in her parents’ home. Joel agreed and together they drove to the man’s house. Joel said that she was in really bad shape—very thin, frail and needed another woman to carry her to the truck and hold her while he navigated the narrow, rutted road to the main road and onto the hospital. Several women accompanied her to the hospital and probably stayed with her all day.

She died that night. She left a husband; they didn’t have any children. Tuesday, Joel and Pastor Fernando visited the family. People had already begun to gather around the family—sitting in the shade around the various buildings of the family’s home. Her body was in one of the houses and family members stayed with her. People surrounded the family all day that first day and most of the day of the funeral.

Wednesday morning was the funeral. We arrived and sat—men with men, women with women. The mood was somber. Some sang quietly; others talked quietly; others just sat. We waited while they put the finishing touches on the coffin. Then they carried it into the house and placed her body in it. They carried her out and allowed people to view the body before loading her onto a truck to take her to the cemetery.

When the truck left, all of us stood and followed it on foot. There was a trail of people that stretched for probably half a kilometer. The throng of people slowed down traffic and passer-bys knew that it was a funeral procession. From where I walked in the back, it was quite amazing to see all the people. The men walked in the front and then women in the back. I am a good few inches taller than most women here and could see over most of their heads. The crowd was colorful—reds, blues, yellows of scarves tied around women’s heads, capulanas carrying babies on their backs and any assortment of colors coordinating their shirts and capulana skirts. Some people talked quietly and others sang (but not with the usual exuberance, clapping or dancing) and we all walked from the parents’ house, up to the main road, around the curve, passed the market and then into the woods.

The cemetery was in a woods. Each grave had either potted plants and a tile encasement or a was a flowerbed. Most were healthy maintained and dutifully swept free of debris from falling branches and leaves. One of the pastors of Gondola officiated. I didn’t understand what was said because he spoke in the local dialect but he seemed to offer hope. Midway through, he led them in a song—several lines of harmonies in a hushed tone. From where I stood, I heard them lower the coffin, the dirt clods hitting it and later people placing flowers all over the grave.

We walked back to the parents’ house and sat some more. They served us lunch—sadza (cornmeal mush) and fish. After lunch we left. We returned Thursday and Friday afternoon for prayers. Both times it was a smaller crowd that gathered. Each time, people seemed to be less sad. Yesterday they laughed and joked a lot.

People all over the world suffer and all of us die. We have different practices for burial and funerals and yet they have similarities. The thing that struck me most was after the funeral, everyone returned to the house of the parents’. I think God designed us to only be able to be morose for so long because people began to laugh, talk more animated and the singing was more up-beat and included clapping. It reminded me of how often the meal at a funeral in the States includes a lot of laughter—remembering good things about the person or just people so relieved to have it over, they are able to laugh together. I also really liked the idea of meeting together for three days because it allows time for the community to acknowledge the loss with the family and recognize the significance of the person. It seems very healing to me.

written by Jenny
March 31, 2007