Tuesday, November 9, 2004


I hate funerals. I know that no one in their right mind loves them, but I find them especially difficult. I have yet to go to a funeral, including a few where I didn’t know anyone, even the deceased, without crying. First, the throat constricts, usually right in the middle of a hymn. Then the pressure in the eyes, and next thing I know, my nose is running, and tears are streaming down my face. So, word to the wise: if you ever have to go to a funeral and want someone for moral support to keep you from crying, I’m not the girl to call.

I’m glad we went, though. It was for hubby’s best friend’s mother, and I know it meant a lot to him and his wife (one of my best friends) that we drove the three hours to get there.

Their twenty-two-year-old son is of an earth-based religion. I could tell that he felt alone in the midst of a very Christian service. When he saw me at the committal, he grabbed me and held on for dear life. I whispered in his ear, “I couldn’t let you be the only one, could I?”

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