Funeral

Chuck hated to admit it, but what he really felt at the funeral, more than anything else, was boredom.  A light breeze shook the branches of the old oaks outside the white-frame church, and Chuck gazed at the ever-changing multi-hued splotches of sunshine through the stained glass.  The guys were all probably out on the ball field, he thought as the minister’s voice droned on.

“Brother Charlie was a good man.  He rarely missed a service.  He . . .”

That’s my dad, Chuck thought.  Every time the doors were open, ol’ Charlie was right there praying loud and long for the salvation of his neighbors.

He sneaked a glance at his mother, who sat with red-rimmed eyes, a wadded Kleenex pressed against her mouth.  His younger sister, Mary, honked loudly while little Annie, face contorted and tears streaming, leaned against their mother.

“Ooohhh, Daddy!” she wailed.

Chuck thought of his own dry eyes and straightened in his seat.  What’s wrong with me?  Why don’t I feel the loss?  He tried to conjure up the happy times they’d all had together - like last Thanksgiving.


He had awakened to the aroma of roasting turkey, leaped out of bed and ran to the kitchen.

“Hey, Mom, they here yet?”

“Shhhh, Chuck, she said in a hushed voice.  "Your Dad’s still asleep.  No, Uncle Bill and Aunt Ruth aren’t here yet.  It’ll probably be another hour or so.”

“I wish they’d hurry.  I want to show Billy and Nat my fort.”

“What fort?”

“In the barn.  And there’s the new calf.  They’ll really like him.”

“Well, why don’t you go wash up and eat your breakfast.  Then you can help me knead the bread dough and fix the salad.  If you’re busy, the time will go faster.”


Chuck smiled to himself, and then blushed as his gaze met the Reverend’s.

“. . .only God knows what’s in a man’s heart, but . . .”

Chuck glanced out the window.  That had been a good day.  He had shown his cousins all of his favorite spots, then they had conned Dad and Uncle Bill into a game of touch football.  After hours in the bright, cool air, Chuck walked into the warm house filled with many delicious odors and his stomach growled ferociously.  He could hardly wait for his mother’s call to dinner. 

When they had finally gathered around the table, his mouth watered as he watched his father slice the golden-crusted bird.

“Me next,” he cried, holding up his plate, as Dad passed the loaded plate to Aunt Ruth.  Chuck’s shin throbbed from his father’s sharp kick.

“Women and girls first, remember, Charles?”  His lips smiled but his eyes looked hard.  Chuck knew that, if he so much as winced there'd be hell to pay later.  He shuddered as he remembered the pain.  His leg had remained bruised for weeks.

Had God seen that kick?  He wondered.  Did He know the resentment he felt again as he remembered it?  He squirmed under the minister’s gaze.

“Even now, St. Peter is meeting Brother Charlie and taking him unto the Father.  There, we can be assured that our Heavenly Father will clasp Charlie to his breast just as an earthly father would welcome home his prodigal son.”

Chuck dredged through his memory, searching for the warm feeling conjured up by the preacher’s words.  Yes, there had been times.  Times of love and warmth.  He recalled snuggling up to his father on the couch, or scrambling onto his lap to watch TV.  He struggled to relive those moments before he was ‘too big’, but they kept slipping away.  The dim coziness insistently faded into a bright sunny pasture field.


Father and son had herded some straying cows back into the pasture and now they walked along the fence line checking for breaks.  Swinging along over the close-cropped grass, the boy surged ahead and suddenly felt a stinging pain in his thigh.

“Ow!”  He whirled to face his grinning Dad, who held the cattle prod at ready.  “What’d you do that for?”

“What did you jump for?” the man chuckled.  “You should’ve seen your face.”

“Well, that hurt!” he said, fighting back the tears.

“Hurt?” he sneered.  “I thought you were a man!”

They walked on, but Chuck kept shooting wary glances over his shoulder.  Each time he let down his guard, the stinging prod and triumphant laugh underscored his laxity.  At last, the break was found and repaired and Chuck had run ahead to the house to inspect his red-splotched legs and buttocks.


The casket was being closed and Chuck sneaked a glance at his sobbing mother.  How could she be so sad?  Had she never felt the sting of the prod?  He thought victoriously of his midnight foray into the woods with prod and shovel.  There he had dug a grave for the torturous instrument.

No more must he be constantly alert for the stinging prod, the sudden kick, or the lifted foot that suddenly sent him sprawling while his dad looked on with a malicious grin.  The minister said that God knew everything and saw everything, didn’t he?  So if God knew, then He’d understand.

Chuck rose and, with his mother and sisters, followed the coffin out of the chapel.  If only there had been more good memories, more moments of love, and warmth, and caring - - then he would be sad.  But, as it was, surely God would forgive his impatience to get to the ball field.