Some Days are Diamonds Sung by – John Denver
We are all just people. They are at the church and I hurt. I hurt but I am not family. I cannot sit still. I am used to that but I want to sit still. I want to say good-bye. I liked him. The three men and I used to sit on my front porch, the early morning work interrupted by the need for a rollie and a cuppa. Building -hard work – had to stop for me to enjoy the company of those who had lived. I knew they were going to die; one an alcoholic, one a heavy smoker and then my newly lost friend, my painter, sufferer of asbestos.
There he lays/lies, photo on the coffin and the church full of community. The family struggle; the pews waiting empty at the front for them to gather then sit. The Minister is stiff and formal. There is nothing formal about the gathering.
Family at the front, many decades of workers predeceased a daughter, a father and then those still alive form the generations – all three in front of most us.
Psalm 23: The Lord is My Shepherd
I cannot sit still. The hurt in my heart has moved to my wiggling legs and sniffing nose. I don’t want to sit and see whom I know in the church. Outside is sunny and there are rows of plastic green church chairs lined up outside for those of us who can’t fit inside. We can’t see the traditional photo slides and this provides mystery, missing and relief: we don’t have to see what we have not known and can keep what we do to ourselves. Our personal relationship, outside the family group that confirms what everyone shares. He was a nice bloke. The nicest, easy-going, kind; a painter who insists three coats must be applied! My “tradie”, my deaf painter: a bowling club regular, my mate and the best decorator in the village.
The Lord’s Prayer
The church pews are full and people looking, nodding at each other throughout the funeral. We are sharing and grieving; knowing that we are attending another family or friend’s funeral. We all know each other or have heard of each other’s joys and sadnesses. The village church this day firmly in the palm of the hand of the community.
Heaven is My Woman’s Love Sung by – Col Joye
Outside are the women with the children minding the potential for loud cries within the blue heavy brickwork of the church. Also outside are the other tradesmen who have worked with the painter, some for more than forty years. Imagine the stories that they shared. Now the final hymn, sung in the rhythm of a deaf man who loved to dance! His memories are now ended but ours begin. We stand around the family who leave to bury a husband, grandfather, father, cousin and uncle but no longer a son.
