With great respect
by Art White

I was visiting the mother of a teenager whose memorial service the local funeral director had asked me to conduct. I didn't know the family and was trying to get some feel for what would make this grievous ceremony a bit more personal and appropriate.

It's not uncommon for pastors to provide funerals for persons outside their own congregations. Funerals and weddings remain cultural requirements for many people who otherwise have no ties to established religion. Conducting these rites, especially funerals, is a common professional courtesy.

Jeff Eaton was 15, I learned from his sister. He was a good student, had lots of friends and didn't complain much about his treatments, even though they made him feel nauseous for days. After 18 months, Jeff succumbed to his leukemia. His last days were painful and comatose.

"My son was a good boy," said his mother. "I wouldn't want him to come back, mind you--he suffered so--but I tell you, part of me is lying there beside him right this minute."

As I listened, over her shoulder I saw my own son enter the viewing room, walk straight to the open casket, stand there quietly for a moment, maybe even say something, then step aside and pause to speak with the rest of the family. With his sleeveless T-shirt, cut-off jeans, unlaced runners and ragged, shapeless socks, Brad looked like he was going to the Y to shoot baskets. His appearance was distracting. I excused myself and went over to where he was carrying on what might be called an "animated" conversation with Jeff's sister, Carol.

"Hi, Dad."

"Surprised to see you here," I said quietly, hoping he'd hear the hint.

"Yeah, well, uh, I thought I ought to pay my respects."

"You know Jeff?"

"Whatdaya mean? He played with me on Brewster Transport, second base. You remember?"

I didn't remember.

"Well, I'd better be off. See ya, Carol," he said, giving her a hug. "Say some nice things about Jeff, Dad. He was a real good guy. See you, Mr. Eaton. I'm proud Jeff was my friend. I know he was proud to be your son."

Mr. Eaton looked at me and I at him. I pressed a clean handkerchief into his hand and nodded for him to take it. He did, gladly, then turned once more to stand quietly by the casket.

I circulated among the mourners, very few of whom I knew. I looked at the flowers, spoke to the organist about how we would proceed, then went to wait in an anteroom for the service to begin.

Soon the funeral director appeared. He had set up the lectern and would be closing the casket shortly. We reviewed last-minute details. He gave me the standard envelope containing a cheque "for professional services", then asked me about the young lad who had come in.

"I noticed you talking to him just before he left," observed the director. "I don't know what you said, but it worked. I was just about to ask him to leave, myself. The nerve. I don't know what he thought he was doing here looking like that."

"They played on the same ball team a few years back. He was here to pay his respects to a friend."

"Maybe so," said the finely-attired owner as he left to close Jeff's casket for the last time, "but why couldn't he have shown some respect for the living?"

As we walked to their car following the internment, Mr. Eaton returned my handkerchief, thanked me for what he called a "very meaningful service", then added: "I want you to thank your son for coming to the funeral home. No offense, Reverend White, but his being there meant more to me than anything else that went on there today. Your Brad is a fine boy, a fine young man. You must be very proud."

I was. Arthur G. White lives in Clementsvale, N.S.

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