A Program to Keep Forever

So, I am sitting at the funeral of a great man. A man so great that, fifteen minutes before his viewing was scheduled to START, there was a line snaking throughout the huge building. A man so great that, twenty-five minutes before his funeral is scheduled to start, the only seats left are folding chairs, in the way back. A man I knew was great but underestimated the greatness of by arriving only fifteen minutes early to his viewing and twenty-five minutes early to his funeral. A man so great that people remember the love he showed them thirty-five years or more ago.

A man who is not great because he thought he was great, but because he thought others were great, and showed them that.

And I think about the love he showed me in the brief time I have known him and how I wish I could have known him longer and better.

So I am sitting at the funeral of a man so great that the prophet is speaking at it. I am finally for the first time in the same room as the prophet of God, Christ's representative on earth. I am breathing the same air he is breathing. I am lifting my voice in song with him. I am sitting in a building that the great man who died erected as a place for the gathering of the believers, and the acoustics are so good that, for the first time in my life, I can hear my own voice rising with my fellow beings and mixing and blending with theirs, my one voice contrasting and playing off their hundreds of voices. It is a good moment.

I am breathing the same air as the prophet and this great man's hundreds of family members and friends, and I am sitting way in the back and peeking behind the heads of a beautiful white-haired couple. I am hanging on every word of the prophet who is speaking, trying not to miss any, because he is wise, he is funny, he is friends with the man, and he matters. He matters and what he has to say matters.

And I think to myself, I need to keep this program with the picture of this great man and the outline of his funeral service forever. After all, he will be the ancestor of some of my grandchildren.

And while I am listening, hanging on every word of the prophet with whom I am face-to-face for the first time in my life, though hundreds of people are between us, I start to fidget in my chair. Not because of the funeral, which was completely lovely, nor the speaker, but because of the cramp in my, well. . .in my "very high leg" that hasn't gone away for weeks because I won't stop running on it. The ibuprofen I took in the morning has just worn off, and I didn't bring any more in my purse.

So I am sitting in the funeral of a great man, listening to the prophet, and changing my position to relieve the pain running down my leg, and I set my program down on the empty chair next to mine for a minute as I shift my position. And I may or may not have rummaged in my purse for another tissue.

And the woman in the chair next to the empty chair next to mine picks up my program (which I intend to keep forever), turns it sideways, and starts to write on it. Really? I think, and I turn to look at her, but she does not look at me. She just keeps writing. And I do not speak to her, because what am I going to say? "When you are through writing on my program, will you please return it?" I think not.

So I turn to my husband and I say, "That woman just took my program and is writing on it." And my husband, who is not petty about programs and does not intend to keep such things forever, hands me his. So I have a program to keep forever again, and we really didn't need two, anyway, because my husband is not planning to keep a scrapbook one of these days that he will probably never start putting together until after retirement and all the children are out of the house, like I am, so the problem is solved.

So I am sitting at the funeral of a great man whom thousands loved, listening to no less than the prophet speaking, but I still feel miffed at the woman who took my program, and I wish I could make it right, meaning that she is made aware of what she has done. Even though my husband has already made it right, really.

And I tell myself that surely I don't believe she meant to steal my program, and she surely has no idea what she has done, and it's okay if it remains that way forever. And I am listening to stories about a man who would take off his necktie and give it to an admirer, and listening to the voice of someone who once gave his dear pet rabbits to another little boy whose family was hungry, and I wish I were a better person who didn't feel petty about small slights, and I think that maybe I was mistaken and my program fell on the floor--or hers did, and I look on the floor but it is bare, and the woman walks off with my program when the service ends and I know I don't really care.

And I know I want to stop being the kind of person who will only have a handful of people at her funeral.

So I make my way with my husband slowly to the outside, and, when we get there, we find that the family, which exited long before we could, is standing around in the spring sunshine, and we can move among them, so I find my son and his wife and we chat briefly. I tell my daughter-in-law how beautiful she looks and how beautifully she performed, and I give her mother a similar compliment.

And I see that my assumptions about the prophet's time and mobility were wrong, that he has not rushed off under heavy protection, but is standing there with us, talking with the family and friends standing in the sunshine. I see that, from behind, his hair looks as soft as that in a Carl Bloch painting, that he is tall and statuesque, but also ordinary and human. And right there with us. And it seems to me as I think it would if it had been two thousand years ago and I had been in a crowd with Christ.

He is only a few feet away, and I remember that my son met him a few days ago, and I wonder if I might meet him, after all--something which seemed impossible or remote at best up until this very moment. But his back is to me and he is busy talking to people--other people more closely connected to the family, closer to him, probably. I am several degrees removed, and likely always will be.

And he lingers, and as I talk with people, I move a little closer to him, and I decide I will try to walk by him and see if I can shake his hand. Not because I need to shake his hand, but because I know someone who needs attention from someone Christlike, and I think that maybe, in some mystical way I cannot articulate, my getting close to him may help my loved one.

He is walking away, and my husband and I are walking hand-in-hand behind him. A car door is opened and he is tucked inside. The door is shut. I am standing outside the door, not two feet away from the prophet, and my husband is saying, "One more handshake?" to the security men, and I am shrinking back, knowing I am not entitled to interrupt the schedule of the prophet and would never dream of doing so.

The security guard is explaining briefly to my husband that they are trying to get the prophet to the cemetery quickly, and I am awed all over again that the prophet of God would not only come to the funeral, not only speak at the funeral, not only mingle outside with the people, but would also follow the family to the cemetery.

And I know that I am not close enough to the great man to attend the cemetery and have not included it in my plans. So I murmur to the guards that of course I understand and I turn away with my husband to walk to our car.

And the day seems cloudy now and I feel my oppressive burden sitting squarely on my shoulders and neck and I know that this burden is and always has been and always will be mine alone to bear, and that no one else can really help me with it, that it is my own private hell that no one else can carry on their backs like a weighty cross. I know I am completely alone.

And my chest is heaving and I am sobbing because I was two feet away from the prophet, who would help me if he could, but I am only one of fourteen million followers and no one of consequence to him, and never will be. And I know this and it is okay, but I ache to know how to help my loved one and I am clueless. I am completely clueless and have been for a long, long time.

And my husband notices that I am sobbing violently and wiping tears and snot off my face and says he will take me to the cemetery so I can meet the prophet and I say no, it is not appropriate for me to follow him around. I mumble, "It is my burden alone." And I cry some more. And I know that it is my burden and not the prophet's burden, and that if I would not be the kind of person who can get offended about a swiped program, I could have a good influence on people by myself and not need to look outside myself for help. And I know that I need to change and become a better person.

And my husband says he does not have to go to work right away and I say that I have an appointment at three o'clock and I have to be back at the office to meet a person. And I think about the person I have to meet, and how insignificant she seems in my life at this moment. And I know that she has made many mistakes. Terrible mistakes that have put her life in ruins. And I know that it is my job to help her. And I think that I must be there to help her, and that I must not follow the prophet to the cemetery and expect him to help me. And the words, "do so even to the least of these" go through my head.

And my husband offers again to take me to the cemetery, and I know that it is not appropriate, and I do not want to be seen as someone who would do something inappropriate out of desperation for the prophet's attention. And I am loathe to make the funeral of this great man in any way about me and my problems and, even though I have a whole hour before I have to be back at work for my appointment, I am not going to change my mind.

And I know that I have missed an opportunity. Barely missed it. And I know that I wish I had not missed it, and I know that there is a lesson in there for me. And I realize that I tend to hope and expect that people will notice my needs and fulfill them, yet that just about every single person Jesus healed when He was on earth came to Him for help. I think about the woman who reached out to touch the hem of His robe and those who called out, "Son of David, have mercy on me!" And I think that I need to work on feeling more entitled. And I think again about the program and how far from great I am and how I need to be there to help the woman who is coming to me at three o'clock.

And we reach the car and my son calls me on my cell phone. I know it is my son before I answer it, because I have that gift. I answer the phone and he says that we did not say goodbye and I apologize and say I had wandered off and didn't mean to not say goodbye. And he says he is sorry and thanks me for coming and for other things and I tell him again that he is welcome to my time and love and efforts and he asks me if I am crying because I did not get to meet the prophet and I say yes but I need to go back to work and my husband needs to go back to work.

And we start driving back to work and my son texts me that the prophet will be at the cemetery and I can come there if I want to meet him, and I call him and explain that I do not think it is appropriate and I would not want to do anything inappropriate like following the prophet around so I can meet him or making the funeral of a great man about me or intruding on a lovely family beyond the proper bounds.

And my son who, quite normally, ten years ago wished that people would believe that he came into the world miraculously and immaculately without any parents at all tells me that he is sure that the prophet wants to meet me, as well, and that he just had to hurry into his car.

And I smile and say that I understand that and he assures me it would be okay if I come and I don't know what to do, but I thank him.

And I tell my husband that I am certain that trying to meet the prophet thinking that it will help me with my burden is surely a kind of magical thinking. And my husband, who is always telling me that my superstitious ideas are magical thinking says no, it is not magical thinking and he thinks I should go and meet the prophet.

So I tell him he should do what he thinks is right and he turns around at the next exit.

And I call my son and tell him we are coming but to please text me if the service ends before we get there, as we have been going in the wrong direction and are far away.

And then I think about the sins I have committed and the petty person that I can be and that there is surely nothing at all that I can say to the prophet. And I tell my husband it is not possible for me to talk to the prophet. And I think if I can just shake his hand, that will be enough.

I am still very nervous about the idea of following the prophet around and making the funeral into something about me, and I blow my nose a few more times and realize I must look dreadful by now and that I didn't bring any makeup with me, but by the time we reach the cemetery, I have calmed down some.

And I receive a text, and so I figure my son is telling me that I am too late. And I cannot receive the message because my mailbox is full, so I clear some messages, and wait. And my husband keeps driving on. And then I receive the message, and it does not say, "It's over--he left." It says, "Drive past all the cars and park behind us. There is a spot right by us."

So I feel encouraged and we drive up right behind my son's car and get out and join him. We have missed most of the ceremony, but everyone is still there, and the prophet is standing over there, waiting for his turn to place a rose on the coffin. And my son greets me kindly and I breathe in the sunshine. I can feel the sunshine on my hair and I think that just being in the presence of the prophet is good enough. But maybe I can position myself to shake his hand as he walks by and that will be plenty. I do not need to talk to him. I will just shake his hand, if I can. And then I will work on being a better person.

And people move about some and my husband inches closer to the prophet, and my son, on the other side of me, moves closer, too. And they are inching me closer. And the prophet turns to leave and he shakes hands with those he passes by, and I am right there, and he shakes my hand as he passes by, and his hand is warm and dry and I look him in the eye and say his name to acknowledge him.

And I am satisfied. I am there, which is a little obtrusive, but I feel I have not been too obtrusive, so I am okay.

And my husband is saying something to the prophet and he says, "Sure, I'll talk to her," and I turn around and feel mortified that he has stopped the prophet on his way out in my behalf and does not realize that I am satisfied. And I hear my husband tell the prophet briefly about my deepest wounds, the most private and painful pieces of my heart, and I wish he would shut up but I know you don't tell your husband to shut up in front of the prophet, so I can do nothing except wish he would shut up and feel my mind race to figure out how to seem proper under these circumstances, and it doesn't seem possible, because my son and members of the great man's family are hearing the embarrassing words that my husband is saying and I don't know what to do.

And I hear my husband repeat something I said months ago that seems to be telling the prophet what to do and I cringe and wish he would just stop.

And I know my son is hearing this, too, and I guess he is also cringing and I wish my husband would stop it. And I know my husband is just doing his level best to ask for the things he knows I should ask for, only I won't. And I know that my feelings are complicated by my unentitlement issues and that my husband understands this.

And, thinking back on this now, I remember the beautiful Carl Bloch painting of Christ standing in the public square and pulling a filthy, rotting rug off of an invalid who has been waiting for years to be healed--a man who has come to the Pool of Bethesda hoping to be healed but cannot get himself into the water and has no one to lift him in. And Christ, in His beautiful white robe, reaches down and pulls the nasty rag off of the man who has been decaying under it as if to say, "Who is under here who needs My help?" and exposes the man in all his filth to the glory of the sun and air and heals him then and there.

And I am standing right in front of the prophet, who takes a paper out of his pocket--a drawing by a child (I can see crayon sunshine and flowers on it), and he asks me for my loved one's name and writes it down. And he offers to pray for my loved one and I thank him. And he asks some questions about our heritage and tells us a story about his, and I can see he is human, an old man, and I am imposing on him half against my will, and he is being gracious about it, and I feel bad that he is taking more time with me than he needs to and telling me a story about his life, and then he offers to pray for me, as well, and I write my name down on the child's picture.

And then it is over and I thank him for his time. I want to leave and stop intruding. And as I hurriedly walk off, I hear another person call out to the prophet to talk to him.

And a man walks up to me and says he works for the Church News and asks me for the story of the child's picture. Only I don't know that story. I only know the prophet wrote a name down on the picture for me. So I tell him that. And he doesn't care about that, of course, and I don't blame him. I hope he can get the story he wants, but I cannot help him.

So we leave, and my husband and I laugh on our way back to work about what if I had made up a story about the child's picture for the reporter and how inappropriate that would have been. My story is about a child, but I am the only one who knows that.

And I don't know how I feel about all of this, but I know that I was privileged to be at the funeral of a great and generous man. I know I met the prophet and he was kind to me. I know that my husband stood up for me. I know my son was tender toward me. I know my loved one will be prayed for by more than just me. I know that I am loved and lucky. I think that perhaps trying to carry a burden alone has contributed to my rottenness. And I know that I am going to try to be better, as I should be.