Grandma Reese

     My sister and I cringed when we learned we'd be attending my great-grandmother's funeral just three days before Christmas. It put quite a damper on the holiday spirit, and we would be taxed precious break time to pay our respects to a woman we hardly knew. Still, on the 22nd of December, we found ourselves driving through the gray, wet winter day towards the little Halifax funeral home.
     It was the first funeral I'd ever been too. There was a special viewing room just for the family. My great-grandmother, wearing a fuchsia jacket, lay in a silver casket piled with a beautiful, bright bouquet. I stared at her as we walked by. She indeed looked flattened out, like my mother had told me when she'd returned from the viewing the night before. My grandmother behind me started to cry. Like with most emotional situations, I became completely numb. I always take it upon myself to be the "strong one."
     The room was packed with family that I'd never even seen. But, even in the presence of a corpse, people were laughing and talking about Christmas plans as if it was only a family reunion. A part of me thought the merry-going a bit disturbing.After we walked by the casket we walked around the room and chatted with all of our distant relatives. There was hardly any mention of Grandma Reese. Instead, we talked about Christmas plans and how good everyone looked.It was far from the stoic, black-veiled occasion I had imagined.
     After about twenty minutes, several men walked in and took the casket away. Then, we were ushered across the funeral home and into a small white chapel. Because we were family, we took up the first several rows. My dad and I ended up sitting in the second row, right behind the speaker.
     The service was quaint and relatively tearless. A couple of songs were sung. Grandma Reese was given a plaque commemorating her service as a "Pentecostal Holiness Pastor's Wife." Then, the casket was carried out once more, and we all filed outside, then got in our line of cars.
      At first we were silent. My sister had been shaken by the emotionality of the service, and my mom reminisced about her father's funeral service that had taken place at the same location fifteen years ago. However, it was a long drive to the cemetery, and after my Dad turned on some Christmas music, we really eased up. About twenty minutes into the drive, my dad called his auto repairmen to talk about his car.
     I thought we were going to see Grandma Reese buried. Instead, we had one last, brief service as her casket was suspended over the hole in which she now eternally rests. Still, I didn't feel much emotion. The only time I really teared up is when family members turned and started visiting my grandfather's grave. He was Grandma Reese's son, and my mom's dad. Mom walked up to his grave and cried, and I stood with her as she did, until my uncle came to comfort her. I was glad I'd kept the tears back, and was just about to go when Buddy's (my grandfather) brother caught me up and told me that he can see my grandfather in me. Without knowing exactly what to say, I whispered a thank you, and then slipped away. Eventually, everyone retreated from the cold and back to their cars, leaving the funeral workers to stay and bury the body.
      And then, we went out to lunch.
It might seem weird to say, but I'm almost glad this happened so close to Christmas. In retrospect, this experience showed me just how important family is in the holiday season. It took my focus off playing video games and hovering over Tumblr, and set my focus on the more important things. I hope now that through my grandmother, I can live and share this message with others.