The Saddest Song

Perhaps we need to learn from Europeans who treat their cemeteries more like parks than creepy areas of loss.

My father died in June 1981, his funeral closing traditionally Methodist with the song “Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee.” I was not there. The funeral directors reluctantly but kindly held the body for burial until I could return from Europe, where we were living. I’ve never understood people denying themselves that last visit, viewing the loved one as if the sight of a body in a coffin could obliterate a lifetime of experiences. There is assurance for me when I lay my hands on the mortal home of a loved one’s soul, touching their clothes, their hair, their ice-cold hands and face. Yes, they are dead. But the body is still precious. It held me and was held by me. Fine clothes, coiffed hair, and artful makeup dress the remains for the final party.

As a church organist playing at many funeral services in sanctuaries and funeral homes, I learned to inure myself to the grief in the room. As a Christian, I view death as a part of life. As a student of psychology, I understand the need for grief: would we struggle to protect something whose loss didn’t grieve us? But, I state openly: I don’t like it.

Waking early on the day of Queen Elizabeth II’s funeral, I rose, made coffee, and tuned in, looking forward to catching some of the music accompanying the event. The public funeral had ended, the procession of hundreds, perhaps thousands making their way solemnly to Windsor, kept in step by classical funeral marches performed precisely by military bands.

The private committal service attended by 800 people took place at St. George’s Chapel at Windsor Estate, a sanctuary which recalls a cathedral rather than a country chapel. The grandeur of the architecture, the garb of the clergy, and the solemnity of the music contrasted with the simplicity of the service. The royal family grieved in public, on television for the world to see. I wanted to assure them: we all have baggage. Most of it is petty.  

The final song of a funeral service releases my dam of tears. So it was on the day of the royal funeral. When the piper exhaled into the bags releasing piercing tones throughout the space, followed by the mellow voices of the pipe organ playing Bach, the salt water flowed. I imagined the queen’s soul carried to heaven on song. During the closing hymn at a long-time friend’s funeral, my eyes focused on the family, and the tears came. That life was over leaving a space for the survivors to fill.

Most recently, I gathered with friends of family of a very close friend who had suffered nearly five years of ALS, a painfully slow death. There was no music during the 30-minute intimate service at the Veterans Memorial Cemetery nor at the house afterward. The wife had kindly declined my offer to bring my harmonica. The celebration was a time for family and friends to remember Rich with the kind of party he would have loved with food and booze and lots of laughter. Capped when my husband fell into the icy pool.

But when I woke the next day, it was as if we had sung the final song. It was over. Rich was not coming back. My grieving began.

The final hymn. The lyrics proclaiming love and life. The joyful tune mocking sorrow. The deceased’s final song on earth. No, I don’t like it.