Memories: "...and still we sing."

It almost seemed like everything was in slow motion. Heavy mist and dim clouds sat still in the atmosphere as a mass of people marched slowly, almost as to the beat of a distant drum. Tears that fell from the sky, blended with the light tears of the mourners. The line outside the sanctuary continuously increased, as those inside, teary eyed and respect filled, approached the altar to bid farewell to a beautiful friend.  This single event that I am about to reveal is so much more than a family gathering.  It is representative of my culture, my heritage, and my family.  Where I come from, funerals are not the end of a life, but celebrations of a life well lived.  Naturally, the death of a loved one brings tears, but they should be tears of joy and comfort.

Seated shoulder to shoulder, rows upon rows of people dressed in various shades of gray and white, felt each others warmth and general feeling of closeness.  One of the eldest aunts rocked a small baby on her knee to quiet his cry, while others wrapped their arms around and whispered a soft prayer to console the family members.  A wearied uncle began to pat his feet to the inspiring music, and others, some with blank stares, some with smiles, reminisced about the life we all shared together prior to this day.

As I sat between my parents, the stories that my parents had told me about my heritage echoed through my mind. My father was one of ten children and the son of a sharecropper who migrated from the south in 1952.  There had been difficult times in his life as he grew up in a segregated environment which lacked equal oppportunities for education, housing, and jobs.  Remembering this while looking around at the people, I could almost feel the course hands that came from long hard work and the somber lines in their faces that reflected deep disappointments. Some family members reflected on those who had passed on into eternal life without ever realizing their dreams, while others wore faces of pride since they had participated in the Civil Rights Movement, become leaders at work and in the community, or simply graduated high school. Looking back on this moment, I can understand now what funeral celebrations really stand for. In many cases the loved one laying in silence represented the past. Each life celebrated represented the plight of the African-American in some way, shape, or form.

Within a few short minutes, what seemed like hours of daydreaming were interrupted by a choir with almost a hundred bellowing voices.  They sang old Negro funeral hymns, such as, "I'll Fly Away."  This particular song that was sung with so much emotion, triggered tears of happiness in assurance that our loved one would live again in heaven.  A soloist, a daughter of the deceased, stood in front of the congregation and like a cannary in the spring, sang to her mother with so much relief that she was no longer suffering from cancer any longer. After selections from the choir, the congregation quietly hummed another spiritual, "There will be joy when I get home," which in the time of slavery meant freedom to slaves that arrived in the North.  The heritage of over 100 years continues! How amazing--so much has changed, yet so little.

As the pallbearers prepared to carry the body to its place of rest, the choir began to quietly sing, "May the work I have done speak for me."  Due to our strong sense of morals and beliefs in helping and sharing with others, this song accurately embodied the essence of my family members' lives. One by one, as if though it was pre-conducted into a beautiful symphony, family members held hands, and joined in the singing that filled the sanctuary with the sound of a celebration, a celebration of our heritage, a celebration of life!