Consumed by my loss, I didn't notice the hardness
of the pew where I sat. I was at the funeral of my
dearest friend - my mother. She finally had lost her
long battle with cancer. The hurt was so intense,
I found it hard to breathe at times.
Always supportive, Mother clapped loudest at my
school plays, held a box of tissues while listening
to my first heartbreak, comforted me at my
father's death, encouraged me in college,
and prayed for me my entire life.
When Mother's
illness was diagnosed, my sister
had a new baby and my brother had recently
married his childhood sweetheart, so it fell on me,
the 27-year-old middle child without entanglements,
to take care of her. I counted it an honor.
"What now, Lord?" I asked sitting in church.
My life stretched out before me as an empty abyss.
My brother sat stoically with his face toward the
cross while clutching his wife's hand. My sister sat
slumped against her husband's shoulder, his
arms around her as she cradled their child.
All so deeply grieving, no one noticed I sat alone.
My place had been with our mother, preparing her meals,
helping her walk, taking her to the doctor, seeing to
her medication, reading the Bible together. Now she
was with the Lord. My work was finished, and I was alone.
I heard a door open and slam shut at the back of the
church. Quick footsteps hurried along the carpeted
floor. An exasperated young man looked around
briefly and then sat next to me. He folded his hands
and placed them on his lap. His eyes were brimming
with tears. He began to sniffle.
"I'm late," he explained, though no explanation
was necessary. After several eulogies, he leaned
over and commented, "Why do they keep calling
Mary by the name of 'Margaret'?
"0h" "Because that was her name, Margaret.
Never Mary. No one called her 'Mary,'" I whispered.
I wondered why this person couldn't have sat on
the other side of the church. He interrupted my
grieving with his tears and fidgeting.
Who was this stranger anyway?
"No, that isn't correct," he insisted, as several people
glanced over at us whispering, "Her name
is Mary, Mary Peters." "That isn't who this is,
I replied.." "Isn't this the Lutheran church?"
"No, the Lutheran church is across the street."
"Oh."
"I believe you're at the wrong funeral, Sir."
The solemnness of the occasion mixed with the
realization of the man's mistake bubbled
up inside me and came out as laughter.
I cupped my hands over my face, hoping it would
be interpreted as sobs. The creaking pew gave
me away. Sharp looks from other mourners
only made the situation seem more hilarious.
I peeked at the bewildered, misguided man seated
beside me. He was laughing, too, as he glanced
around, deciding it was too late for an uneventful exit.
I imagined Mother laughing.
At the final "Amen," we darted out a door
and into the parking lot. "I do believe we'll be
the talk of the town," he smiled. He said his
name was Rick and since he had missed his
aunt's funeral, asked me out for a cup of coffee.
That afternoon began a lifelong journey for me
with this man who attended the wrong funeral,
but was in the right place. A year after our
meeting, we were married at a country church
where he was the assistant pastor. This time
we both arrived at the same church, right on time.
In my time of sorrow, God gave me laughter.
In place of loneliness, God gave me love.
This past June we celebrated our
twenty-second wedding anniversary.
Whenever anyone asks us how we met,
Rick tells them, "Her mother and my Aunt Mary
introduced us, and it's truly a match made in heaven."
