Please Don’t Check the Casket!

Do you ever wonder what people will say about you at your funeral? I think about that occasionally. I must admit that I spend more time planning for the possibility of being in a nursing home; in fact, I have left specific instructions to my girls concerning a few issues. They are sworn to secrecy, so don’t bother asking them.

I am assuming that from my casket or urn, I will have no idea what people say about me, but I sometimes wonder. While I’m not an expert, I have never attended a funeral where someone stood up and said something negative about the deceased.

     “She was the biggest gossip in town!”

     “He was such a loudmouth!”

     “She was probably the worst cook in the family!”

     “He was always so selfish, almost narcissistic.”

If those types of comments were acceptable, I believe I would avoid dying!

I don’t know about you, but I don’t want others to struggle finding something nice to say about me once I’m gone, passed to the other side, been called to heaven. Neither do I want untruths created to make me sound better than I was.

Probably the most humorously sad funeral I ever attended was that of a woman my parents had known most of their lives. We had visited her off and on and I found the visits quite awkward. She wanted us children to call her Aunt Bobo, and for some reason, that scared me.

Even though that name exudes fun and joy; this woman was the opposite for many of us. I always tried to convince myself that she meant well, but it seemed she spent her life fabricating a reputation of hospitality and domesticity. In her mind, those who spent time with her left their gifts of admiration and jealousy at her feet. Beneath her Estée Lauder perfume, Revlon foundation, and hair in a perfect bun atop her head (my dad called it a cow patty) seemed to be a tormented woman whose selfish motives laced her conversations and behaviors. Many friends and family explosions were detonated during holidays in her home. Yet, out of respect for her husband and the fact that she was a fantastic cook, dinner invitations were usually accepted.

Mr. Aunt Bobo remained her husband until she died, and he always seemed to take her drama in stride. (He reminded me of Clark Gable, you know, Rhett Butler in Gone with the Wind.) Now, he sat alone on the first pew while the music softly played. Aunt Bobo and her cow patty bun were lying motionless in the casket; I studied her face from my seat, realizing that I was not accustomed to her mouth in a stationary position.  She looked very different.

I was sandwiched between my husband and my dad on the hard pew, a few rows behind Mr. Aunt Bobo, admiring the organist’s proficiency. I obediently lowered my head and closed my eyes when the pastor said, “Let us pray.” After the first sentence, I peeked and confirmed my suspicion. He was reading the prayer from his paper, which I found irritating. Could the pastor not pray from his heart instead of a piece of paper? Could he pleeeaassse just abandon his cold monotone and add some warm sincerity?

During the next few minutes, my mind disappeared from the prayer and entered the debate room in my head where I was scolded for my critical attitude and subsequently schooled in all the reasons a written prayer could be appropriate. Had I even listened to the words, or had I been so haughty about the fact it was being read that I missed the meaning of the words? Looks like I lost that argument.

Trying to reenter the service, I quickly glanced inside the memorial card to check Aunt Bobo’s real name, then rejoined the service as the preacher began his eulogy. It seemed this woman had been a saint with pure motives, a benevolent wallet, a worker in the Lord’s work. Who knew? As her good deeds were being recounted one by one and her beautiful character was being praised with superlatives, I tried to reconcile the words with what I had witnessed on my few visits to her house.

I was startled when my dad nudged me and leaned towards me. Whispering in church was worthy of punishment when I was growing up, so I was a bit confused as to why he would break that well-known rule. I began thinking the worst. Was he having another heart attack? Did he need to go to the bathroom?

I listened to his whispered statement and immediately began damage control.

I was sure the entire congregation had heard my father say, “You better run up there and check the casket. I think we’re at the wrong funeral.”

It was one of those moments when the demon of uncontrollable laughter burst upon the scene. My entire body fought to keep audible giggles from escaping; I was terrified I would end up snorting. My head went down, and my eyes focused on my hands, begging them to send some serious thoughts my way. The laughing demon needed to be exorcised. My shoulders continued to shake silently, and my face was contorted.

My husband had no idea what was going on. Assuming I was crying, his arm tightened around me to comfort me. Bless his heart.

I often recall that experience and remind myself to live up to my eulogy. I would just die if someone felt the need to check the casket at my end-of-life service!

59 Responses

  2. Donna this was so fun to read! I felted like you were here talking with me. I m not a great reader , but I love to read what you write!

    Reply

  3. Once again you caused the endorphins to course through my veins as I chortled and guffawed while reading this. I even called my wife in to read it aloud so we could both enjoy it. You are a uniquely gifted storyteller and I look forward to reading whatever you write. You have become my favorite author.

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Donna Rhodes