DH's grandmother passed away, an event we had been expecting. We had lived the week or so before waiting on edge for the call to come. Come it did, at 6:30 in the morning. A deep sigh, tears, and then a flurry of activity. Packed and on the road, heading back to the farm.
Funerals are a strange thing. There is an odd combination of sadness and joy that make it hard to find your emotional footing. It's like a family reunion on which one person is missing out. The food is always the same (although I've learned there are regional differences). The sentiments are always the same. The preaching is always the same. I suppose we find comfort in that, in the rituals of death.
Personally, I hate them. I've been told I am so vehemently against going to funerals because I don't want to show my emotions. Poppycock. I have lovely emotions, and I am rarely unwilling to show them. Anger? No problem. Happiness? I'm there. Adoration? You bet. Grief? Well, maybe I like to keep that one a little more to myself.
My theory is that I have seen a lot of death. It comes with the business - a job hazard I suppose. Some deaths still hit me hard, like S.'s. Most don't though. I know it's a platitude that is spouted a lot at funerals, but I truly believe that the people who die are going on to a better place, a place where they are healthy and young and happy. Oh, and hot. I think everyone in heaven is hot. I couldn't find that in the Bible anywhere, but it makes sense.
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