The year was young, and she was old—over 100 years old. It already seems like a long time ago, and yet, only a few weeks have passed. But the sharp, rotting odor of incense in hair, nostrils, and memory persists. It evokes the ceremony that celebrated the life of a woman whom I had never met, from a tradition I had hardly known, in a language that was not my own. My friend and I were there to support the centenarian’s daughter, our mutual friend and colleague.
As the deceased lay in silent composure, she was surrounded by lustrous silk, a sumptuous casket, and myriad flowers. The flowers were expertly arranged, but they, too, exuded a deathly sub-text. The living bowed and rose at the signal of intonations, bells and strange rhythms tapped on a hollow wooden box shaped like a crouching dragon.
The fact that I could not understand a single word, made it easier to concentrate on the non-verbal significance of the proceedings. An illuminated god-figure received long devotion. Then a large, pre-2004 portrait of a lively, quite beautiful woman became the object of adoration. After a good hour of intonations and obeisance, each member of the immediate family received a white strip of cloth that they tied around their temples. This band represented their loss. It must be fully acknowledged. They each received a stick of incense. Holding the smoldering offering between their hands, their eyes downcast, they bowed respectfully towards the portrait.
At the doorway, the funeral directors bustled and exchanged comments. This was just business as usual at the expansive mortuary complex. They even provided a small lunch box as part of the package.
After lunch, we reassembled for a pre-cremation ceremony with more intoning, bells and percussion. The daughter took the microphone and thanked those present for gathering in fidelity, love, and friendship. Then six white-gloved family members accompanied the casket as it was wheeled out, still mounted on a lovely covered trolley.
A motley group fell in behind the six men in procession to the crematorium. The casket was whisked away through one door. The mourners entered an adjacent door, where they crammed into a small room with a curtained window. An attendant drew back the curtain. After a short incantation, and a sprinkling of each immediate family member, the officiant removed the white headbands. These were bundled up and cast into the furnace. The loss was to be mourned no more, since their loved one was in a better place. Then the deceased arrived, hidden in a large yet paltry cardboard box with dimensions reminiscent of an oversized pizza.
I had been stoic up to that moment. But the sight of this box consigned to the flames was my undoing. I could hardly bear to look at her son-in-law, his body wracked with sorrow. It had been his fraternal duty to push the button. I broke down in inconsolable tears.
Such a pretty ceremony, so many pretty floral arrangements. But the pretty flowers and accessories were retained by the funeral home. The directors were already gathering up random odds and ends in preparation for the next ceremony: “You got what you paid for. Now leave!” All that was left was the haunting odor of incense—sharp, not quite pleasing. You can prettify death, but you cannot nullify death. Death stinks.
I put on a brave face to say goodbye to the bereaved daughter and her family. Then my friend placed a reassuring arm around my shoulders as we made our teary-eyed way to the parking lot. In moments like these, friends are a sheltering tree under which we find comfort and the strength to carry on. We can weep unashamedly as Jesus did at the tomb of Lazarus, for our broken hearts are restored by the resurrection with skin on. Thank God for friends who are handy with duct tape.
Ruth Burke is a member of the elder team at the La Sierra University Church.