Day 354

Mom and I went up to the rectory at Sacred Heart Church today to finally schedule a funeral/memorial mass for Dad. It’s going to be on April 14, the anniversary of his death. The secretary gave us the standard packet of forms to fill out in which we have to select the hymns and readings. She told us that we could have one person give a eulogy if we wanted. Mom said that wouldn’t do because both G3 and I were planning to speak. The woman said those were the rules, one person only, and he or she could speak for no more than five minutes. That’s the thing about the Catholic Church, they’re all about the rules. And if you don’t like them, too bad. There is never any room for discussion or compromise. But it’s not like they are saying this mass our of the kindness of their hearts. This isn’t an act of community service. We’re paying for the mass. Us! Our money! But the Catholic Church is all about making money. They were capitalists before capitalism was even a thing. For them the bottom line is cash. It always has been. Seriously though, why can’t both my son and I give a eulogy. Would an extra two minutes really hurt them? Have you ever gone to a Catholic mass? Have you ever sat through a homily? Priests can drone on for ages and say virtually nothing. They’ve put me to sleep numerous times. But I’m being told to keep my thoughts down to five minutes for my dead Dad. In all honesty, I don’t think I’d be able to write a long speech anyway. Well, I guess I’ve been eulogizing him now for nearly a years so yes, I could write volumes, but a eulogy requires speaking and Lord knows I won’t be able to get three words out without crying hysterically. I cried when I gave my grandfather’s eulogy and again when I gave one for my grandmother. She and I weren’t even close, and still I sobbed throughout the entire piece. Now, if my dad were here and I could ask him what his thoughts were, I guarantee you he’d say he would prefer a shorter homily and a little extra time for his daughter and grandson to say a few words. That would be most important to him. I know this because when my grandmother died no else in the family wanted to say anything about her. Dad thought someone dying and having no family member speak was awful. To have a lived a life where you didn’t touch anyone deeply enough for them to say something sentimental was dreadfully sad. So he volunteered me to do it. He’d definitely want to hear me and G3 — sobs and all. The priest is just the priest. Okay, I’m sure that was all blasphemous and sacrilegious and would earn me a stern talking to by anyone in the church, but it’s all true. Mom’s going to try to persuade them to let two of us talk if we promise to still keep it short. If they hold fast, like they always do, I’ll of course let G3 speak. He really wants to do this and I won’t take it from him. The Catholic Church would totally stomp all over the heart of a child, but I won’t.

And if the one person, five minutes, rules weren’t enough, the secretary went on to say that the eulogy must be written (or typed out). Before anyone can speak, the priest needs to look at it. Damn! I thought being censored by the Catholic Church ended when I graduated high school. This rule must be new because both times I eulogized my grandparents it was in the same church. And no one cared about what I was going to say. Or maybe the woman took one look at me, thought heathen, and decided I needed boundaries. Not that I’d ever say anything bad in church. Okay, maybe I would, but definitely not on a day that is supposed to be all about Dad. I wouldn’t embarrass him like that.

This evening, as I was helping mom with the dishes we started talking about G3 joining the Boy Scouts. Mom grew silent, her eyes glassy, and after a moment she said, “You’re father was really looking forward to camping with G3 and the Boy Scouts.”

I nearly dropped the dishes. “What? He hated camping with my brother. He complained about  the cold and the fact that he couldn’t sleep all the time.”

“Yeah, but he knew how much G3 enjoyed their boys outings. He might not have gone every time. But if they still had the father and son camping trip, he definitely would have done it.”

And I couldn’t stop the tears, because G3 would have loved it if his grandfather had gone with him. He heard the stories. He knew how much grandpa grumbled, and therefore his presence would have meant that much more. But alas, god — if there is a god — refused to allow it to happen. My son has been robbed of so much. 

To think, the church would now deny him a two minute eulogy on top of everything else. As I said, the church was never in the business of compassion, only the business of making money.