A word for the women.

Hers is the faith of How Great Thou Art. Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound of children laughing and singing and reading the Christmas story. Dust will gather on the tops of hymnals, the organ will fall out of tune, candles will melt into oblivion. But I have brushed up against the other side: the one without belief. The light does not shine there as it does in a wrinkled Kleenex, wet with tears. She showed me what it meant to believe, as she sat at the table, wiped her eyes again, and forced a laugh. Of course everything would fall apart at once. A hug and a knowing eye and a prayer. She showed me what it meant to believe against unbelief; sitting in that church, gripping the pew in front of her, knowing what she was going home to face, sobbing during the benediction, loving even though it hurt.

Women of my childhood, of my home church. Women I have met since I moved away. Women I can only hear about as I lay them to rest. Women who have shown me sacrifice along with hate and truth along with pain. I have seen their tears and I have heard their stories.

They are beautiful in a way only women can be; whispering, giggling, shushing well past the schoolgirl years. They carry burdens and harbor secrets, they bring casseroles and baked things and care for the children and do the housework. They smile and sing, ....oh do they sing. They write, they teach, they pray, they dance. Squared shoulders and powerful arms, gentle enough to rock even the newest of babies to sleep. Their words echo in my mind; words of wisdom, hope, empowerment.

We gather at the table (the one the women prepared), all from different places now; some strangers, all friends. A still, small voice breaks through the static, telling me to stop and listen instead of talk. To wait with the faith of Hannah and Elizabeth. To believe against unbelief. To take the things and ponder them in my heart.

I carry them with me; their smiles, their eyes. I hear their laughter and their broken voices. In many ways, I'm made up of what I've seen and heard, in other ways, I'm quite the opposite.

There are some songs we never seem to forget, some words that seem to spring forth before our eyes even get the chance to open in the morning, some recipes (especially Christmas ones) that will always lead us home. For these, and for the women who keep bringing them to me, I am grateful. I want to be this kind of woman.

This Holiday Thing

I swore I wouldn't do this. This holiday thing. This grief thing. But, today, after a weekend of holiday memorial services honoring those who have come through our funeral home this year, here I am.

It was an innocent chat. She asked me something about Thanksgiving. I said something about my grandparents. For a brief moment, I froze mentally as I tried to ignore the tear threatening to well up in my eye, I found myself thinking,

"I swore I wouldn't do this. This holiday thing. This grief thing. I swore." 

But here I am.

I'm not going to ignore the fact that my grandfather passed away this year. I'm also not going to ignore the fact that his loss means something for my family. It means many things, actually. It means that time keeps going. It means we'll have an empty seat at the table this Christmas--the one with the tennis balls on the chair legs put there so he could get in and out of it more easily. It means there will be stories and laughter and, knowing him, a housefly or two darting around just to remind us of so many good memories with him. Someone will have to sit on the couch all wrapped up in a blanket and ask me how my money's holding out because he won't be there to do it. His stocking will stay in the box. He won't slip me a $100 bill when nobody's looking. We'll keep missing him. And that's ok because he was a big part of our lives and I know we'll never forget him.

This is a special season for all of us. Let's not forget those who are grieving. I even hesitate to say, "those who are grieving," because in many ways, all of us are grieving someone.

Whether it's a recent loss or a not so recent loss--let's not forget. 

I challenge you to honor that empty spot at the table. Fill it with someone or something new and different. Just don't ignore it. Listen as stories are told and re-told. Lend a hand to someone you know is hurting. Don't fear silence, or tears, or even laughter.

If grief shows up this Christmas, don't be afraid of it. Honor it, remember it. And keep making memories.

I love you, Pop.

Sticking Out Like a Sore Thumb

Earlier this month, I had the opportunity to attend a funeral at an African American church. I did this as part of a school project that required us to attend a funeral "outside of our comfort zone." I also did this out of sheer curiosity because, while it may not be something we really think about or draw attention to, churches and funeral homes are still very segregated. Knowing this, I called the funeral home handling the service beforehand to be sure my presence would be alright with the family and I proceeded to make my way to the church later in the afternoon. I nervously parked my car in the overcrowded lot and got out. Step one: complete.

As I walked towards the sanctuary, I felt as if I was entering a foreign country without guarantee of asylum. It wasn't that I was afraid, necessarily. It was more of the fact that I felt very out of place. I was attending the funeral of a complete stranger and I had NO idea what to expect. I was also the only white person in sight. And I am a very white person at that. I stuck out like a sore thumb. I kept my sunglasses on until the last possible moment before I slid into a pew between two older women. I tried to maintain a semblance of confidence as I busied myself with adjusting my dress and slipping my cell-phone into my bag. The lady next to me leaned over and asked if I wanted to view the body. As she gestured towards the open casket at the front of the sanctuary I quietly demurred, preferring her to assume I was not comfortable with corpses instead of letting on that, no, in fact, I deal with bodies and funerals on a daily basis, but I was petrified to walk all the way to the front of the room full of peering strangers.

The service began. A booming voice proclaimed, "All rise!" A large choir entered the loft behind the pulpit, the preachers entered the sanctuary, and the funeral directors (dressed in matching suits) gathered the family in the back of the church. Over whispers and shuffling feet and a constant, low hum of the organ, a young pastor quoted scripture as he walked down the aisle. A group of about 20 women, all dressed in white, appeared behind him. They were all older and they were altogether beautiful. The women were followed by a group of about 20 men, all wearing black. I deduced they must be elders of the church as they took their seats at the front. The large family was led to view the body in the casket and one by one, they took their seats as well. As the organ music kept going, I slowly became aware of how long we had been standing. In a comforting, rhythmic voice, the pastor continued quoting scripture. Finally, the family was seated. As I sat back down on the pew, I felt more at ease.

The choir opened with a song and I watched as a few people stood and waved their hands along with the music. Stories were told, laughter was shared, tears were shed. Family, friends, and church members eulogized their loved one. There was another song, one that drew more of a crowd of people leaping to their feet, worshiping the Lord who had called one of His own home to rest from her labors. I found myself getting lost in the moment. I clapped along with the women beside me, proud to share in their joy and to know that even if we had little else in common, we worshiped the same God.

The young preacher got up again and spoke of how he could see the grief of the family for a beloved grandmother, mother, sister, and friend, but that he grieved for a different woman. He grieved for a woman he didn't get the chance to really know. She had suffered from dementia since he had been called to the church a few years ago and he only knew this matriarch through the stories of her younger days. He spoke of her light and her faith and her unwavering trust that was passed along to her daughters, just like that of Naomi and Ruth. He spoke of God as her Keeper. He spoke and then he YELLED. There was some loud rejoicing and some loud praising and some loud singing, and while it was a little overwhelming for my Presbyterian eyes and ears, there is no doubt the Spirit was in that place. I swayed and smiled and clapped along until---close to two hours later--- it was time to go. The funeral directors came and closed the casket as the family gathered 'round. They had to kind of push their way out of the crowd in a final 'letting go.' The women in white came forward, each taking a flower or arrangement with them on their way out of the church. The group of men and the family also exited, singing as they walked.

I dodged a few sideways glances as I exited the building, but I left that place knowing a woman I hadn't known before. I knew her in the way the young pastor did, from the stories. It is not everyday that I see families and congregations come together for a joyful, pulsing celebration such as that. It was an honor to share in the service of such a valiant and beloved woman. And while it did take a few hours for my ears to stop ringing, I know that, given the chance, I would do it again in a heartbeat. Even if I stick out like a sore thumb.

When the Saints Go Marching In

As many of you are aware, today is All Saints' Day. It is a time to remember those who have passed on during the year.

I had the honor of being a part of a rather large funeral today in which a faithful servant was celebrated. As friends eulogized, voices cracked and tears fell, but I noticed that as quickly as Kleenex's were snatched up, smiles also swept across faces. It made me think about how grief, in its simplest form, is a reaction to loss. This reaction, however, is a process.

Popular psychology will tell you that grief has stages. Elisabeth Kubler Ross even goes so far to define these stages as denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. In reality, these stages aren't really stages in the way we think of stages. There is no set order, there are no set time-frames. We go back and forth, around and around, drifting in and out of our own sense of consciousness. We tell, we re-tell, we 're-member.'

It all brings us to a part of ourselves we wouldn't get to otherwise.

Grief over life, grief over death.
We give each other grief. We grieve for and with one another.
We are taken aback by it.
We all somehow grieve differently and yet we all grieve the same.

Oftentimes, our minds process our stories in pieces. We end up telling and retelling our experiences in an effort to fully grasp them. Our words take on a rote tone, one that Thomas Lynch describes as prayer-like.

It's a funny thing, our rememberings. Our words. Our prayers--even the ones that don't have words. Our grief ages our souls as it brings us to our knees. It shows up in the daily things--in getting the paper and in the breaking of bread. Our comings and our goings--it all becomes more holy. Our daily bread becomes a perpetual communion and sleep is an answered prayer. Life becomes fractional; bits and pieces exist in a type of suspension, but not as a whole.

Our grief, however, is not the end. We can take comfort in the fact that a new world will one day be revealed, a world where death shall be no more. As Revelation 21 says, "neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away."

I will leave you with the words of the hymn, When the Saints Go Marching In.

      We are trav'ling in the footsteps
      Of those who've gone before,
      And we'll all be reunited, 
      On a new and sunlit shore...

Some say this world of trouble,

Is the only one we need,

But I'm waiting for that morning,

When the new world is revealed...

Lord, how I want to be in that number

When the saints go marching in!

Prepositions

I'm sitting in the same classroom for the 4th hour in a row. On one side of me, there are two caskets (empty, I promise), on the other, there are twenty classmates, all of various ages and backgrounds. The instructors ramble a bit, confusing words like 'generic' with 'genetic,' 'presents' with 'presence,' and 'elections' with 'electrons.' Nobody else seems to notice. Oh well.

Somewhere between the chemistry lesson and the three-thousandth question about whether or not we have to  know ALL the bones in the body, words begin to pop out at me. The words are simple, prepositions actually: by, with, for...

We have moved on to the 'Funeral Services' portion of the school day and are watching a PBS Frontline documentary called The Undertaking. (<-- VERY highly recommended).

....By the living
....For the living
....With the living

It strikes me as it has done before-- funerals in the modern sense mean different things to different people, but Thomas Lynch's words start to work in my finite brain, "we deal with death by dealing with the dead..."

Our death traditions are just that- traditions- just like our marriage traditions, birth traditions, and holiday traditions. They serve a purpose, but we have to remember they are not immune to change. The processes of planning, conducting, and attending funerals helps usher us through the beginnings of the grief journey. They give us something to grasp, rules to follow, and roles to play as our little worlds change beyond our comprehension.

We all view and deal with death a little differently, but, in the end, we all must face it.

It never fails that at any funeral I attend, there is a solitary moment in which time seems to stand still. It often happens at the graveside as the pallbearers carry the casket to the grave. Watches tick, birds chirp, cars go by, but the hallowed plot of land on which we place the casket is eerily quiet. We've come as far as we can. Family and friends have eulogized, prayed, sung, cried, rejoiced, remembered and now we stand in reverent awe. The casket is lowered and we reach the end. The body stops moving. We stop carting everything around. We arrange the flowers for the last time. We say a final prayer, maybe sing a final song. Then we leave and the reality of the loss accompanies us as we walk away from the grave.

We continue to lean on the living; hearing words of sympathy, accepting tender embraces, and eating fried chicken to our heart's content. In these moments, we are vulnerable in our humanity. In moments to come, as we look back and remember things about the ones we've had to let go, we seem to be more vulnerable in our spirituality. Through tears and laughter we keep moving until death interrupts again; until our little worlds stand still.

Do you see what I see?

[If you're a regular, you may have noticed that the background changed a bit. Don't be alarmed, it was just time for an update. If you're new here, welcome! Hope you're not intimidated by a little dialogue about death... no, really.]

I get it. I like living in the mountains. I use cloth bags for my groceries. In fact, I advocate 'reduce, re-use, recycle' in all circumstances. I compost. I cringe at the amount of petroleum used on a daily basis, yet I want a bus-load of kids. I'm obsessed with learning about midwives and morticians. I'm kind of a granola-- and that's ok with me. All of this begs the question: aren't modern embalming practices anti-earth friendly? The simple answer, yes, unfortunately, they are.

So what of it? There are many unnatural things, and lots of chemicals, involved in preserving a 'memory picture' of our loved ones as we view them between death and burial. Without these chemicals, the type of viewing (open-casket) we think of would simply not be possible. The chemicals--formaldehyde, methanol, phenol, etc. offer temporary preservation for the body. After burial, the chemicals eventually reach the earth and probably our ground water. There are also materials used in hospitals, ambulances, the preparation room, and cemeteries that are not sustainable (mostly plastics and precious metals). And then there's the space taken up by cemeteries, headstones, mausoleums, on and on and on. To think I will actually depend on this way of doing things for my livelihood bothers me sometimes. But, then again, it doesn't. I get it. I understand why we do it this way. I mean, let's face it, it's right in line with our American way of living. Does that mean I agree with it or think it's for everyone? No.

The bottom line is that we see what we want to see about the funeral business.

If you want to see that our culture has shaped us into being materialistic and shallow, you can fall into the camp that says funerals are obsolete; that the presence of the dead at their own funeral is optional; that all funeral directors do is capitalize on the grief of others.

If you want to sympathize and say open-casket services are essential to the grieving process, you'd be in the group that says embalming is a necessary art, one that is unique to the funeral industry and important for closure for friends and loved ones.

If you want to get hung up on the paperwork and the insurance and the money and the convenient 'packages'  funeral homes offer, you can and I won't judge you because I have the same thoughts.

I choose to see that embalming, open caskets, cremations, funerals, gravesides, flowers, thank-you cards, etc. are important. I just don't think all of it has to be for everyone <---And that is what will help me change along with this business.

After attending a funeral directing convention this week, I have some new knowledge of the industry and some new ideas of my own that I will continue to talk about. Please feel free to share your ideas with me too!

A fly on a cupcake

You know the feeling you get when something is first brought to your attention and then suddenly it's EVERYWHERE? Yeah, that's how death is for me. Don't get me wrong--it isn't a creepy kind of ghoulishness or an overwhelming sadness type of thing--it is just there.

I'm working at a small town funeral home and I'm going to funeral school, so my day-to-day activities are centered around embalming, cremation, funerals, burials, etc. I'm finding the work to be pretty much enthralling. I guess the subject just jumps out at me now. I have so many questions and I am in a state of just soaking in as much information as I can. Death, dying, grieving, history of funeral service, cultural and religious traditions--anything--I'm interested. If you have a story, I want to hear it. If you'll sit still long enough, I'll tell you one of mine. Don't be surprised if this blog sort of morphs into a conglomeration of everything I'm learning. Also, don't be surprised if I start to sound like a fly on a cupcake. There is just so much involved in death. 

I was thinking yesterday about how I came to this point in my life. The only other career option I have ever been this excited about is that of an OB/GYN. I know, I'm crazy, right? Who wants to usher in life? No, I hear you, that's not the first thing you thought of... let's be honest, it's a different kind of job... That's why I kept the idea mostly to myself. I didn't pursue that route because A. Med School. and B. it just seemed too bogged down in ultrasounds and pitocin and monotony to me. I much prefer the idea of a midwife. 

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that midwives, at least in America, were actually some of the first kinds of undertakers. These pioneering women, along with their traditional tasks of assisting in births, took on the role of washing preparing bodies for burial. Undoubtedly, this had something to do with the astronomical rate of stillbirths and infant deaths, but still, it's kind of mind boggling. That juxtaposition of life and death--the one we all feel somewhere deep inside of us--the early midwives lived it. To wash and prepare a body is truly one of the most moving experiences this life has to offer. I can only imagine that ushering in life is along the same vein. In our modern era of technology and busyness and blah, blah, blah, I find it fascinating that to actually be entrusted with a body, to slow down and take care and 'undertake' the process is something that is unique to birth and death. I learned that the word 'undertake' means "to bind oneself to a task or to pledge to get it done." What a concept!--one that has carried over into our modern idea of funeral directing.

Something to think about, right? I guess I qualify as a granola now, huh? More on that later...

I have a dream...

Many dreams will remain only dreams, but some will come true. Which ones are which? What determines how much time and energy we put where? How do we know?

I don't know the answers to these questions, and like many of my dreams, the picture is cloudy, the sound is garbled, and the ending is cut off... all I know is that at some point we have to give ourselves over to the process. Along the way, some things will fall apart, some things may fly up in our faces, still others may just sort of eerily fall into place: but all are choreographed by the Master.

Right now, I am living in the beginning of a long-time dream. I have a job, an apartment, and some really great opportunities. Put simply, I am blessed. There were some hiccups along the way and there will be more to come I'm sure. For now, I'm just gonna keep dreaming good dreams...

Here are some pictures of my first place!

My stoop and my bike

Hallway

Bedroom closet

Bedroom

Bathroom counter

Bathroom

Living area

Kitchen (view from the dining area)

Dining area

Christmas [In July]

Folks,
      I'll admit I was racking my brain for what to write about this month. I thought about just letting this one slide by and making up for it with two posts in August. I came up with a few ideas yesterday... one about my love of reading and the books I am currently obsessed with, another about the conferences going on this summer in Montreat. I just couldn't get myself to sit down and process either of those. Then, today at work, LIFE hit me square in the face.
      It was a quiet moment in the store, a rarity during the mornings of youth conferences when hundreds of teens stream in to get their t-shirts and Cheerwine. In the midst of my own to-do list of cooking, cleaning, packing, forms, classes, and the line of customers waiting to purchase their items, my thoughts were interrupted by a pair of earrings sliding across the counter.
       I reached for a box to put them in and the customer said, "Oh, I don't need a box, I'll wear them out!"
       I said, "Alright, that's good with me! Your total is $36.38."
       I swiped her card, and as I waited for the receipt to print, she said through tears, "They remind me of my son. He always loved calla lillies." Then, as if realizing she was talking out loud, she said, "I lost him recently." More tears.
       I was dumb-founded. Asking her to sign the receipt seemed trivial. I didn't know what to say. This wasn't the funeral home. This wasn't a pre-packaged environment where sadness and tears and death were expected; the norm. There wasn't a box of Kleenexes within arm's length and there weren't any flowers to move around for the hundredth time.
       There was only me. And her. And her grief. Suddenly, the three of us seemed to be taking up too much room so I stepped back a step and said the only thing I could think of, "How old was he?"
       "25," she said.
       "Wow," I said solemnly. "Well, I'm sure he would have loved to see you wear these."
       She removed the earrings from the paper card they were on and I held the pieces in my hand as she slowly and deliberately swapped old for new. I smiled and she smiled and she took a deep breath and walked away to join her friends.
      It bothered me--that space between the "Wow." and the "Well." That space in my thoughts that said, "How, when, where, why?" "WHY?" I wanted to know everything and I wanted to know nothing. I wanted to hear her story and not have to hear her pain. But, then, the two are inseparable. So it goes in life. So it goes with our faith stories and our loss-of-faith stories, our love stories and our loss-of-love stories. And no, this post really isn't about Christmas [in July] or Christmas at all. Except for the truth of the One incarnate, the One who came so that our tears and our grief and our pain will be no more. Praise be to God.

Duck, Duck, Goose

Whew! What a whirlwind these past few weeks have been. Graduation, Spain, the death of my grandfather, and now transitioning to mountain life again. I am reminded constantly of how blessed I am and of how the Lord is working in my life to bring about changes and challenges in His perfect timing. In the midst of juggling a job, online classes, family, friends, and my own to-do list, I feel as if I am nearing the end of 'getting my ducks in a row' for the next few years. It is a satisfying feeling knowing that I have somewhat of a plan and it is comforting to know that even if none of it works the way I plan, there will always be solutions as part of the bigger plan.

I will be sending in my application for student licensure in embalming and funeral directing this week. I have gathered almost everything I need and signed on all the dotted lines. Its a strange feeling--one that feels final and good--like a quiet certainty. Its the same certainty I have when people think I am joking about my career goals. I just laugh a little along with them but deep down I remember the widow shaking my hand and offering the most smile she can muster as she steps away from the grave of her husband. I remember the child asking to watch us cover the grave of his friend as seeks to satisfy his curiosity about the finality of it all. I remember the family who buried two loved ones within a week and how grateful they were for our attentiveness to their every need. I will have more and more to remember and to hold for those whose hands are full at the moment, but who will one day look back and remember for themselves their loved one being laid to rest.

Despite my doubts and reservations about this career and about the industry as a whole, I believe there is value in this work and that good can come even from the most tragic moments of life. After all, death is a part of this life and it touches everyone. I hope the business part of funerals continues to improve and that the Lord continues to work wonders in the spiritual part. By His grace, I will work in the human part.

For now, I will do laundry and enjoy this day.

España

Madrid

Palacia Real- Madrid

Sevilla- Plaza España

Birthday in Sevilla

Granada- Flamenco show

Granada- Alhambra

Granada

Barcelona

Zaragoza

Bilbao

Bilbao

San Sebastian

Guggenheim Bilbao, sky bridge

I'm a PC alumna!

After mountain week,

Kelly, Me, Tyler

....
Commencement weekend commenced with a Baccalaureate service and a senior class party on Friday night:

Us girls

Me and Caleb

On Saturday, it was time for graduation!

My parents, PC Class of '85 and '86, assisted in the conferral of my diploma

The 2E

Quick Update

Just a short note this month as I am juggling so much schoolwork and end of the semester/end of my undergraduate career busyness. I guess the big news is that I got an apartment to live in next year! Starting in August, I will be moving back to "Clinnon" and living in a cute little apartment in town while I attend school for a degree in funeral services and work as an apprentice in the funeral home. I am excited for the next few months and looking forward to a trip to Spain in May and a summer in the mountains of Montreat, NC. Many adventures await! Stay tuned for posts in May with pictures galore from graduation and Spain!

Proud Parents on Honors Day

Honors Day 2012, PC, with Tyler

GDH countdown.

 This is the time of year when college students all across the nation are playing frisbee, sunbathing, and gearing up for that last month of school. It also, however, happens to be the time when we get sick and tired of the food in the dining hall. We joke that they are cleaning out the freezers, and that may well be true.

At PC, there are communication issues with updating the online menus, but we can pretty much tell what's for dinner within the first steps of walking into the beloved Greenville Dining Hall (GDH). By the time I actually get into the range of visibility of the food, I'm groaning and complaining.

"Mea Lasagna," yum.

Snapshot: I'm standing in the middle of the Classics line and the "Vegetarian"/Soup section, having just realized my only edible option is pizza...again...and I'm saying to my friends: "Four years of this! Ugh!"

Since these are the last few weeks of GDH  (38 days to be exact), I thought I would update my GDH blog post. (Check it out here. There are more pictures...)

Kelly found a pearl!

The chicken fries were short-lived, once we found out what they were...

Pie: The best Thanksgiving food

Loch Ness Monster

Ok, so maybe we play with our food. But nobody said we are grown up yet. Here's to having to feed ourselves from now on.... we'll probably miss you, GDH, but not at the moment.

Signing off for the month, praying for a great end to a great year at PC!

"Clinnon"

Spring is in the air today in beautiful Clinton ("Clinnon"), SC, and I am pondering the very real possibility of staying in this sleepy little town for a couple more years while I pursue my A.A.S. in Funeral Services. I have also been charged with the task of showing prospective psychology professors around the PC campus over the past few weeks and it has gotten my wheels turning on what this place means to me. Their burning questions are along the lines of "Where is the nearest Target?" and "How far is Greenville, again?" I gently tell them there is a Walmart not so far away and that we students think of a trip there not as "an errand" but as "an outing." It's really "an event" in some cases. They chuckle, but I speak the truth.

So, you ask, what do I do between schoolwork and working at the funeral home?

Well, first, there's cooking. I like to cook a lot. Well, I like to eat in general, but I am learning to love to cook. And the great thing about cooking is that you can do it anywhere and feel instantly at home. The Ingles here has become my best friend.

Keeping with the food theme, a Zaxby's has opened up down the road with a fancy new drink machine to boot! There's also a new donut shop in town. Donut's & More has some tasty treats. (Note: this branch has closed since this post was published... but I can still go to the store in Greenwood!)

Donuts & More; Laurens, SC

One of my favorite spots is the little movie theater in downtown Laurens, The Capitol Theater and Cafe. They have gone in and out of business, but when they have a good movie showing, I'm likely to be there.

                         

Last but not least, I am always up for a stroll around the little neighborhoods near PC. I think I'll make a few rounds right now. Catch ya later, blog people. 

"Most People"

January: the month of doors and gates. Christmas is behind us and most resolutions have come and gone by now. For us college students, January means new classes are started and new friends are made. For me, this month marks the beginning of a final semester at PC.

Among other things going on at this time, such as trying not to freak out about graduation, deciding on plans after college, and adjusting to the fact that most of my friends are now married or soon-to-be so, I am embarking on an adventure this semester called an "internship." I must warn you: this is not going to be your run-of-the-mill experience.

I am interning at a funeral home.

That's right, I'm considering becoming a mortician. I realize that the words "undertaker" and "embalmer" just aren't the kinds of words that pop up among things a parent dreams of for a child. Nevertheless, I am investigating the field.

I have spent a few days on the job this month already and I like what I have seen so far. It seems doable to me. Judging by the mixed reactions I get when I tell people of my current career goal, most people are just not cut out for this kind of thing. My answer to that: I am not "most people."

In four days, I have attended more funerals than "most people" will do in their lifetime and I have already experienced a "diverse clientele."

As the semester continues, I am sure I will have stories to tell and reservations to process, and I would appreciate your thoughts, prayers, and encouragement as I go through this time of discernment.

I will leave you with a final thought, an observation of sorts, that occurred this past week at a funeral I was working. It was a funeral for a young grandmother; a woman who had passed unexpectedly. Some out-of-town relatives arrived early for the combination visitation/service. As the day progressed, the rain began falling harder and harder outside the little country church and as more family and friends arrived, more and more of them went in and out of the doors to smoke their cigarettes. The other funeral home employees and I stood in the vestibule of the church, awaiting the end of the service when we would transport everything to the graveside service.

Between the visitation and the memorial service, one of the out-of-town relatives struck up a conversation with me. She told me about the mess her home was in from recent remodeling projects and how, since her kitchen was being torn out that morning, she didn't know what she was going to cook for dinner in her microwave. She then proceeded to tell me how she had worked hard all her life and how she was doing these remodeling projects as a way to reward herself upon her retirement. She stood there, glanced around at us as we held the memorial bulletins in our hands, and said, "Yes, ma'am, I worked hard all my life. I didn't stand around in a suit all day worrying about which way to hold my hands."

Her words, snide and insensitive, considering the occasion, sparked within me an immediate desire to defend my fellow funeral workers. I chuckled and gently said that I hoped all the projects turned out well. When she turned to re-enter the sanctuary, I thought about what she had said and wondered if "most people" would agree with her sentiment.

I hope to never underestimate the power of maintaining respect and practicing integrity, and even if I don't end up pursuing a career as a funeral director, I will never discount the importance of this profession. It is, in a way, some of the hardest work imaginable and I know now that it is not a decision to be made lightly.

Until next time,
Caroline