A Grand Irish Funeral

Sadly, Dixie’s dear younger brother, Chanel, passed away almost two weeks ago. He had been in poor health for some time, but it was unexpected nonetheless. While the family was fielding questions like, “Are ye alright?” and “What can we do to help?”, I was taken aside and, with a similar sympathy that was heartfelt yet ominous, I was asked, “Have you ever been to an Irish funeral?” I have to say it made me twitchy. 

But it wasn’t unlike many American memorial traditions. There were two nights of wake. The open casket was placed in the living room of the house. On the first night the priest was called and there was a brief rosary service called the Sorrowful Mysteries. My American Catholic friends will know about this. There was time afterwards for food and drink and catching up with friends and relatives who hadn’t been together in a while. But that wasn’t near enough merry making on Chanel’s behalf. Everyone then retired to the Monk’s pub until the wee hours for stories and reminiscing and pints of good Guinness.

The next night the family, including me, gathered around Chanel in a semicircle that formed a reception line. I remember similar lines at certain funeral services in America. For three hours or so there was a steady stream of sympathizers shaking hands and moving through. Dixie’s sister-in-law, Breda, stood faithfully by me and introduced me to the guests I didn’t know… “This is Dixie’s partner, Kim.”  

Cathedral of the Assumption

But when you do something over and over ad infinitum, you know how your mind gets dizzy. At one point Breda lost her focus and introduced me as Chanel’s partner. The woman being introduced turned white as Chanel, and I watched her jaw plummet to the floor, as Chanel’s widow was standing only a few feet away. Only as the woman walked away did Breda realize her gaffe. I’ll never let her forget it and, being Irish, she’ll be laughing at herself for weeks.

Then there was more food and more catching up and telling entertaining tales of Chanel. He was fondly described as a rogue and a character and I would say he was a real rascal who loved a good practical joke. He was gentle and kind, and I regret I didn’t get to know him longer and better. You might think the family was now ready for a good night’s sleep, but only after another regrouping at the Monk’s for more stories and laughter and frothy pints.   

The next day was the funeral mass. We were all gathering at the cathedral at 11:30 for yet another long reception line before the service began at noon. Now Dixie’s son Keenan had stayed with us that night. I went in the bathroom just before it was time to leave and, since we had a house guest, I did something I rarely do. I locked the bathroom door with the skeleton key.

I guess it hadn’t been used in a while because when I got ready to come out, it wouldn’t turn. I pushed and turned and jerked it in and out and jiggled and joggled but it was NOT going to budge. I shouted for Dixie but he couldn’t hear me downstairs. I started wondering what he could do even if he heard me. He’d have no time to track down a locksmith on a Sunday morning. He’d have to get to the mass. 

I envisioned myself in my funeral finery, mourning alone on the toilet, missing out on Chanel’s memorial in the most embarrassing way (“Where’s Kim?” “Oh, she’s after locking herself in the loo!”). I was sweating like a first year undertaker, panicked and close to tears.

I made one last plea to God and gave that key a final chance to redeem itself before I condemned all skeleton keys to eternal damnation. It contritely turned and unlocked. And I calmly walked down the stairs as if nothing had happened… “Are ya’ll about ready?” 

We were seated at the front of the cathedral and another long stream of sympathizers coursed down the aisle like healing waters, swirling round the front, shaking hands with family and offering condolences. I kept looking over my shoulder hoping to see the line's end, but the flood waters continued to rise. The large cathedral was filling up.

As I sat there firmly planted in the very middle of the pew trying to seem inconspicuous as the greetings were happening on either side, I was taken by surprise by a bitter sensation that sneaks up on me now and then like a child playing tag. I felt the unsettling “you’re it!” and my mind came to a screeching halt as I welled up once again with that old familiar emotion: grief.

I guess this shouldn’t be a surprise since I was at a funeral, after all. But, to be honest, I wasn’t grieving for Chanel and his family at that moment. 

One of my favorite authors, Rachel Held Evans, was stricken with a sudden illness last week. They say it was complications involving flu and infection and brain swelling. She was gone within a few days. She was only 37 years old, same age as my Leah. 

Rachel was a beautiful, high spirited, zany, intellectual whose spiritual journey paralleled my own. We even went to the same little conservative Bible college in a small town in Tennessee. She was a pioneer thinker and able to express, with humor and optimism, all that was driving folks like me away from the church. She believed we could escape toxic dogma and corrupt systems that clash with our spiritual instincts, and we could reclaim faith in Christ alone. She embraced outcasts and doubters. Rachel, like Mr. Rogers, would have liked me just the way I am. I feel loss.

Dixie, Paul and me singing three part harmony

After mass and eulogies you might think we then walked out… family first in, first out like a wedding, right?  No… not until yet another consolatory tide rose and ebbed. We left last.  

Outside we followed the hearse on foot (a custom lost in America but very meaningful, I think) to the cemetery down the road and up the hill where there were a few words and a song or two by some nieces and nephews. Then… can you guess? Back to the Monk’s pub, this time for a catered lunch and then a good music session because, as Chanel’s widow informed us, Chanel would haunt her the rest of her life if we didn’t have music. Friends and family all joined in the songs Chanel loved… lots of good ole rock and roll.

We stayed in the pub nine hours that day, and Dixie and I were among the first to leave around midnight. I think Chanel would have approved his send off. His spirit was well tended. And mine was soothed as well.