Twas Brillig

Part one is here.

So I went home that night, feeling pretty darn good about this psychotic family of my mother’s. I had met some amazing people, and re-met some other amazing people. As I said, my mother’s siblings were on their best behavior. My Uncle John and his wife Kris were warm and friendly and just wonderful. My Aunt Barbie and her husband, who I had never met until that night, were smart, funny, and lovely. And my Aunt Nancy, who was by far the one I was most terrified of and who I had seen at her worst on more than one occasion was… well… pleasant–and avoiding me.

The next day was the funeral. I would be speaking–reading a beautiful letter from my beautiful mother. My mother has a way with words, along with a way with love, and her letter had the room in tears. Not because we mourned my grandma, but because we loved her and we celebrated her. The other speakers did a beautiful job as well. And my new-found cousins/friends sang an outstanding duet. My grandma had been a brilliant musician–an exceptional organist/pianist, which paid the bills when her husband was so miserable and drunk that he couldn’t bring in a paycheck. Because of this, her children were also raised as exceptional musicians. And we, her grandchildren, had also been raised that way by our parents. It was incredible to see these two women who I’d never met before sing a duet that I would have chosen, sing it in a style I would have chosen, and with the feeling and emphasis that I would have chosen.

We all fell from the same tree.

Everything would have been perfect, if it hadn’t been for that one little moment right before the funeral began…

Just before the funeral, we held a family prayer just before my grandma’s casket was sealed. Many Mormons ask in advance to be buried in sacred clothing used in the Temple. Just before the casket is closed, the final touches to the clothing are put on. This must be done by Temple-attending women, generally immediate family. Aunt Kris and Aunt Nancy and I were the only women who fit that bill, and so Aunt Kris (who had made all the funeral arrangements and was therefore somewhat in charge of this whole thing) invited me to represent my mother (who would have fit the bill, had she been there) and help put the final touches on the clothing, alongside her and Nancy.  I’m not sure if Nancy knew that I’d been invited, but she was CERTAINLY not pleased to see me as I approached. As I reached for my grandma and began to help, she shoved–SHOVED me out of the way.

I was flabbergasted. This is considered a very sacred moment, and anyone with authority to handle this clothing, as we were, would know how very sacred this moment is. And here she was, being stupid and petty and angry, and ruining the spirit that should have been there.

(And plus… um… who pushes a gigantically pregnant woman? At a funeral? This was so messed up on so many levels.)

I suppose I could have fought for my right to assist. I suppose I could have screamed at her. I suppose I could have shoved back. But I didn’t. Sigh. No, I wouldn’t make a scene. I took a step back and simply watched–looking like a complete idiot. My brother and sister, who were with me, watching from where the rest of the group was standing, hadn’t seen the shove. They didn’t know what I was doing up there, just standing still and watching. I suppose much of the room wondered the same thing. Oh well.

After the funeral, there was a luncheon, and then a gathering at Kris and John’s farm which was nearby. I laughed and chatted and enjoyed everyone’s company. Overall, the experience had been a positive one. A happy one. And I had some amazing new people in my life that I would cherish forever.

Nancy made herself scarce after the funeral. She could have had a happy, healing experience, as all of the rest of us did. Instead, she reverted to anger, bitterness, pain. I wasn’t mad at her–I felt sorry for her. It can’t be easy to live your life that way.

When I delivered this report to my mother, it made her very sad. She assured me that Nancy’s actions had not really been aimed at me but at her. I suspect that this was true, but that certainly doesn’t make it better–possibly it makes it worse.

I wonder if, looking back, Nancy was embarrassed, ashamed. I wonder if she realized in that moment that she needed help. I wonder if it was a turning point in her life. I doubt it, but I still hope. I pray that she doesn’t spend the rest of her life holding on to all this unhappiness.

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