My first funeral experience, that I remember, was horrible.

My Uncle Clarence, Katsy we called him, had passed away and we, my sister and I, were taken to the viewing. Amidst much sobbing of relatives, hushed whispers of attenders and the cloying, sweet smell of what seemed to be hundreds of flowers, I stood awed.

I, a child of eight or so, was raised in the era that children were to be seen but not heard. Particularly when among a majority of adults. The funeral home itself was a huge,stately building next to a school chum’s home. A mansion, really. Although I was only in one large area, I could see that there were many such rooms around me. The colors were all pastels, sky-blue-pink as I called them. Wall to wall spotless carpeting and white woodwork abounded. Heavy, floor to ceiling drapes covered more windows than my whole house had. Everywhere there were short, skinny lamps emitting a soft glow. And interspersed throughout, the flowers.

A line of people streamed toward one end. I wasn’t sure what they were looking at, but I was sure I didn’t want to find out. As my sister and I were swept forward, my younger cousin, Bea, joined us in line. She was five or six, and had broken away from her parents. Then suddenly we were at the head of the line. The dark mahogany casket gleamed, the gold hinges shone and the white satin lining was ruffled or pleated. Katsy, in a dark suit, white shirt and red tie, appeared to be sleeping, a hint of a smile on his lined face. As we peeked in at him, his wife, my Aunt Maude, leaned over and said, “Doesn’t he look nice?”

“Not when he’s dead,” my cousin said. Horrified, I stared at Bea. I didn’t know what you were supposed to do at a viewing, but I knew that wasn’t it. I grabbed her by the hand and dragged her away. Somehow the time passed and we left. But I’ve never forgotten her remark.

Funeral attendance, for me, went downhill from there. I’m sure there were many more over the years, (everyone eventually dies, don’t they?), but I steeled myself against the horror of viewing dead bodies. It wasn’t until I was married, and in my early twenties, that another experience left its indelible mark.

A friend from my Sunday School class had been riding a DartKart, a sporting rage at the time. He had wrecked, and while at the hospital, laying on a gurney awaiting xrays, he died of a ruptured spleen. There was not a mark on his body. He looked as though he would get up from that coffin at any moment, grinning and saying “Fooled ‘ya!”

His wife was one of the last to come into the room for the service. Instead of taking her chair in the front row, she walked up to the casket. I assumed it was for one last look. All at once she leaned over and began beating her husband’s body, screaming at him to get up. My heart went out to her, but I could not witness her actions without being in danger of throwing up. I left, missing the service and the funeral.

One more time, before I was thirty, a friend’s parents had been killed instantly in a head-on collision. Why, oh why they had an open casket funeral is beyond me. It was then and there I vowed never to put my family through such an ordeal. I would be cremated. Period. That service and funeral also progressed without me. My friend became hysterical, screaming to anyone who would listen that those people were not her parents, that they didn’t even look like her parents, and what had they done with her parents.

I know it is said that open caskets and viewing hours offer closure. If I may be permitted, bull roar!

Maybe the above is true for non-believers. But for those of us who believe in eternity and more importantly know where we will spend that eternity, this type of closure is unnecessary and in my opinion, pagan. We know that when our last breath is taken here on earth our next breath will be drawn in the presence of our Lord. We celebrate the life of the deceased. Reflect on the joy of knowing that person. How life is perhaps richer because of that association. Grief is present, of course. Especially if that person is your spouse and you were joined at the heart as I feel my husband and I were. Tears are allowed, you know. Even Jesus wept. But through it all, give thanks for the time you shared that life. And praise God for it. And for the glorious homecoming being celebrated - where there is no pain, no weeping, no darkness.

Our lives are but a blink of God’s eye, a wisp of smoke. We cherish life because it is God’s creation.

It is my belief that we’re here on earth because our allotted time is not up and our work here unfinished. It is our obligation to make each day count by doing the best we can in whatever circumstances we find ourselves. Some of us will never be famous, gifted or powerful. We will not invent spectacular items, discover the cure of all illnesses or influence the masses. But, if we daily strive to accomplish whatever tasks befall us, treat our fellow creations with love and put God first and foremost in everything we do, I promise you there will be a void, however small, when you pass on. What caused that void is what we should celebrate, not the void itself!

I decided I could be selective in the funerals I attend and in the way I attend them. I have no problem with cremation memorials. If I feel I must attend a pagan funeral, I am careful not to view the body, thereby avoiding comments as to its appearance. Instead, I try to concentrate on two things. First, comforting the living. Especially if the circumstances involve my being able to share from my own experience. I have lost my mother, my father, my husband, my friends, my relatives. That about covers every experience, wouldn’t you say? We are here to be Jesus’ arms, His voice, His shoulder. Second, celebrating the life of the deceased. Take that trip down memory lane. It’s allowed. Recall the good things, the funny things, the things that made that person one of a kind. His uniqueness.

Maybe, just maybe, the way you witness your faith at a funeral will plant a seed in an unbeliever. And isn’t that the main reason we’re here?