A Service

Helping to say goodbye

A friend texted me last week, asking if I would sing The Lord’s Prayer at the funeral service for his family member. He has heard me sing that piece in particular many, many times, so when he was asked if he knew someone who could sing it, he thought of me. I had so many reasons to say yes (and I did): 1) he’s a friend for whom I will always say yes, 2) I was already going to be there, 3) I love singing that song. The truth is, however, that if you ask me to sing at a funeral and I am available, I will do it.

I remember attending funerals when I was younger — several parents of friends — and marveling at the soloists. I knew them, of course, being from a small town. I listened to them sing “Wind Beneath My Wings” or “On Eagle’s Wings” and recognized that they gave us all something beautiful to listen to while we were lost in our own thoughts about the deceased. That struck me as valuable, and I admired the women and their lovely voices.

In high school, I was invited to join the adult choir at church for my friend Ed’s mom’s service. I will never forget how it felt to sit in the choir loft, facing Ed and his dad while they mourned. I saw grief up close, in all its vulnerability, and responded in song. It felt sacred and privileged, and I kept that feeling close to my heart.

The first week of my senior year of high school, we lost our dear friend Asher. My memories of that service — held in the gym, so that students and the community could all attend — are spotty. The two parts I do remember are of Bjorn, who was teaching Asher guitar, playing Jimi Hendrix’s “Little Wing,” and then the marching band (of which Asher was a member) playing “Summertime” from Porgy & Bess (though my friends and I preferred the Janis Joplin cover). I was sitting up front with the rest of the pallbearers, and had been sobbing in Jessica’s lap before the band started. Jess whispered, “Susie, Susie, listen — the music is so beautiful.” I picked my head up and listened to our friend Todd play the trumpet solo. I remember feeling such envy of Todd and Bjorn that day, which consequently felt wrong and weird and I certainly didn’t tell anyone. I now realize, of course (with all of my big, grown-up, emotional intelligence), that they were helping me to grieve with their gifts, and I wished I could offer that as well.

The first of my four grandparents to die was Grandpa John, when I was 25 years old. I was sitting around my grandparents’ table with my family, discussing the service. They had asked our friends, Steve and Becky, to sing at the service. However, neither of them felt comfortable singing The Lord’s Prayer. I said I would do it. I think I said it suddenly, without a lot of consideration — everyone looked at me, surprised. My Uncle Johnny asked me if I was serious, and said that would be nice.

Music in a funeral service often comes after the homily — an appropriate time to meditate about our loved ones while listening to music. Of course, when the homily is about someone YOU love, and then YOU have to get up and sing, it is challenging to compartmentalize those feelings. My mom thinks my acting background is what allows me to block out the tears. I think that is probably part of it, but some of it is also my need to rise to the occasion. Regardless, I mounted the steps at the front of the church after listening to our pastor talk about my Grandpa’s commitment to our community (which I knew) and his obsession with good shoes (which I didn’t) and put my whole body and soul into a truly powerful piece of music. The climax of the song is such that I wrung myself completely out, and afterwards I could feel my face crumple as I stumbled down the stairs to the waiting arms of Dan and my brother, and just sobbed.

I have since sung that piece for three more grandparents (as well as my father-in-law and for the mother of one of my best friends, and others). It was just as powerful each time, but I found that I developed enough of a callus that it didn’t break me after that first time. I don’t want my emotional response to interfere with what everyone else is experiencing at that moment. At the very least, I can wait until I’m back in my seat, joining the mass of mourning, each in our own way but still collectively.

I have sung many funerals since those early days, with a wide variety of song choices, and please don’t judge me when I say that I truly love it. Being asked to serve during these ceremonies is an honor and a privilege. For a long time I struggled with 1) accepting “thank you” from the deceased’s family, and 2) accepting payment. For the former, I have finally been able to accept thanks with a “thank you for asking me,” or “it is truly an honor to be asked,” or something along those lines. I realized that death is a situation in which most of us are helpless — we can’t DO anything to make it better, so we bring food and give hugs and organize meal trains… we do what we can. I can sing, so I do that.

Accepting payment was more difficult, and I wrote about this squeamishness a bit ago. Luckily, the funeral homes are great about handling this part much of the time, and the envelope I get after the service comes from them, not the family directly. My friends and loved ones absolutely know I would sing for them for free, anytime, anywhere. It is work, it is effort, it is time, so I do acknowledge it is worth money. I have worth.

As of late, I have been hearing a new response after I sing for a funeral: “I want you to sing at my funeral. Will you?” After the utter shock of the first couple of requests, I’ve started answering, “You need to tell your kids. Because I’m not going to call them after you die and tell them you want me to sing. That’s awkward.” My mom has also informed me I’m “booked” for her eventual service as well, and if you can tell me how I’m going to get through that, please let me know. My dad, however, has requested Sisters in Song (my women’s ensemble) so at least I’ll have backup!

Thanks for reading.

Love, Susie