Funeral Mass
It's just my luck that my first mass in Bolivia would be a funeral mass. I suppose that's God's revenge for my absence in church for the past six months or so. At least I don't have to fake it, being a Catholic, since I am well aware how mass works. I also don't want to be facetious here, but I was simply not built for going to funerals.
I still think even God will be convinced that my kids need me more than the Almighty himself. They have clearly not forgiven me yet for being absent for seven weeks in Washington, work-related or not.
A funeral mass is the one event where I try my hardest not to focus, because I think that if I did, I might lose it. Whether the guy is in your family or not, death is still a sobering thing. There better not be a mass for me when I buy the farm or I will come back and personally prove the Ghosthunters and their freaky nerdy fans right as to the authenticity of spirits who've refused to cross over.
So what do you do at funeral masses to keep your eyes off both the corpse in the casket and the pretty ladies dressed up acting all distraught?
Humor, I suppose.
Today, for example, I imagined a group of Commandos busting through the windows like Seal Team 6, their weapons ready, barking out orders, and finally blushing beet red after they've discovered that the little church might not have been the right place on their itinerary.
There could also be a concessionaire walking through the aisles selling peanuts, crackerjacks, or even soda.
Another time it might be that the congregation decides to bust a few moves and dance to, oh I don't know, maybe the Monster Mash, Only the Good Die Young, or Highway to Hell, if the deceased was a prick.
Again, this is only my silly (and admittedly absurd) method of coping, and I don't recommend it to the truly faithful and respectful who have come to the place exclusively to mourn.
This can also backfire, because if you crack yourself up, you have an entire congregation throwing invisible daggers at you or wishing to consign you to the casket as well, for laughing when you really should be miserable and acting both your age and the way the black colors on your suit dictate it.
Today I had a different issue.
Compost breath, or should I say death breath.
No, for real. Somebody's breath was so bad and potent I was almost afraid that the corpse might be revived only to watch the congregation see him drop dead again from the foul smelling pollutant. That's a serious matter, especially with people packed in the pews like sardines. People will go from crying to sneezing to fainting within minutes.
This is only one of two places where I need to imagine myself somewhere else. That and the dentist's.
I still think even God will be convinced that my kids need me more than the Almighty himself. They have clearly not forgiven me yet for being absent for seven weeks in Washington, work-related or not.
A funeral mass is the one event where I try my hardest not to focus, because I think that if I did, I might lose it. Whether the guy is in your family or not, death is still a sobering thing. There better not be a mass for me when I buy the farm or I will come back and personally prove the Ghosthunters and their freaky nerdy fans right as to the authenticity of spirits who've refused to cross over.
So what do you do at funeral masses to keep your eyes off both the corpse in the casket and the pretty ladies dressed up acting all distraught?
Humor, I suppose.
Today, for example, I imagined a group of Commandos busting through the windows like Seal Team 6, their weapons ready, barking out orders, and finally blushing beet red after they've discovered that the little church might not have been the right place on their itinerary.
There could also be a concessionaire walking through the aisles selling peanuts, crackerjacks, or even soda.
Another time it might be that the congregation decides to bust a few moves and dance to, oh I don't know, maybe the Monster Mash, Only the Good Die Young, or Highway to Hell, if the deceased was a prick.
Again, this is only my silly (and admittedly absurd) method of coping, and I don't recommend it to the truly faithful and respectful who have come to the place exclusively to mourn.
This can also backfire, because if you crack yourself up, you have an entire congregation throwing invisible daggers at you or wishing to consign you to the casket as well, for laughing when you really should be miserable and acting both your age and the way the black colors on your suit dictate it.
Today I had a different issue.
Compost breath, or should I say death breath.
No, for real. Somebody's breath was so bad and potent I was almost afraid that the corpse might be revived only to watch the congregation see him drop dead again from the foul smelling pollutant. That's a serious matter, especially with people packed in the pews like sardines. People will go from crying to sneezing to fainting within minutes.
This is only one of two places where I need to imagine myself somewhere else. That and the dentist's.
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