Meditation on a Family Funeral

A week ago today one of Mike's uncles passed. This weekend we traveled to NY for his memorial service. Uncle MK was probably a few years younger than Dad, but he was of the same generation, and his path to the US had a familiar ring. He immigrated to continue his studies, then built a career and raised his family as Taiwanese American citizens. Uncle MK helped found a Taiwanese church and was an active elder. After his passing, many friends from this church came to say their farewells and pay tribute to a beloved elder, friend and brother.

The funeral was entirely in Taiwanese, with translation for key spoken/read parts (sermon, prayers, announcements, eulogies and tributes). For anyone who is an old hand at translated worship services, you know that this makes the entire experience run almost twice as long. In this case it was about 90 minutes, which Mom later said is actually pretty typical, even for non-translated services.

At one point, a choir comprised of friends of Uncle MK and his family sang, If it was not the most technically optimal performance, what more than made up for it was the heartfelt passion that everyone poured into the song. I was suddenly struck with one of those, "this is SO TAIWANESE," thoughts. And for the next few minutes I was back in church where Dad was preaching. A choir was singing, but instead of wondering when it was going to be over, I was wishing that time would stand still, just for a while. And the tears came, both for Uncle and Dad, for times that are now memories, that one day will pass into legend. With their lives they gifted us our unique Taiwanese heritage, which we have claimed and now remade as Taiwanese American, which we in turn will gift to our children. The evolution and legend of this heritage is made precious by our desire to see it so, and in the telling of these stories once and again.

As the service drew to a close, the pastor pronounced the benediction, which was not translated, but once again I could hear Dad's voice clearly in my head, saying, "May the peace of our heavenly Lord, the love of Jesus Christ, and the fellowship of the holy spirit be with you, now and forevermore." I could hear his desire to say these words with conviction, the way his voice always cracked when he emphasized " the LOVE of Jesus Christ," because Dad was not a loud man, and the benediction was the only time he had to project his voice without a mic. Once again, I was overcome, because I knew I would never hear him say these words again. For when he is finally restored, there will be no longer any need to say these words.