A funeral

June 7th 2011

A strange day yesterday. To start with the funeral of an uncle, who belonged to a very strict protestant church, what they call a "black stocking church". Women who are members of that church never wear trousers or slacks, always skirts, and black stockings or tights. They wrap up in layers, a blouse, neck scarves, a vest and jackets so that not an inch of bare skin is visible. No plunge necks for them, which might be a sign of good taste. Given the fact that this uncle has produced six children, the number of family attending his funeral was rather small. Two of his daughters never married, another daughter has only one daughter who wasn't there but took her father's side after the divorce, one of his sons is partly handicapped and although happily married never had any children. His oldest son has broken off all contact when his father remarried a widow after becoming a widower himself. He has never forgiven his father, and so neither he nor any of his children nor grandchildren attend the funeral. The only children and grandchildren present are the offspring of his oldest daughter.

My uncle was the last surviving member of a family of eight, one of my mother's six brothers. He died at the age of 94. Later in life he became a member of this very strict church. When I arrive at the cemetery where the service is going to take place, I only see a sea of black: men and women, the men with leather-bound bibles in their hands, the women with black stockings, black skirts and black hats. I do not know any of them. Apparently they all come from the village where my uncle lived for the past 15 years or so, from the nursing home and the church there. At the very last moment two other cousins of mine arrive. None of them liked my uncle, who did not like any of us because we did not share his very gloomy religious beliefs. He wasn't a friendly man at all, at least not to us, did not attend my mother's funeral, his own sister, because we went to a different church. He just sent a black-rimmed card with "My condolences" written on it. I could have murdered him and decided I would never go to his funeral. But since his daughters, my nieces, are very nice women  and I live closest to the place where he will be buried, I decided to represent our family, for his children's sake.

The service, which I expected to be short seeing the liturgy, was intolerably long. It began with a psalm, which was sung on notes all of the same length, in a tempo so slow that I had to breathe after every two notes. It can hardly be called singing. It drags along and in order to reach the next note people slide up and down like a plane landing or taking off. It is a most unusual sound, the sort of singing we used to hear when we were children and listened via a special band to the church services which were broadcast from the hospital ship cruising on the North Sea. The sound came to us in waves, as if carried by them. As a child I found it extremely fascinating.

Then a prayer, which turned out to be a full sermon, admonishing us and explaining things to God, who is supposed to be all-knowing. After the "amen", I expected a short sermon, but it was a repeat of the prayer, and much longer, talking about God's wrath. It went on and on. At last, another psalm, just as dreadful as before. The preacher did not tell us anything about my uncle's life, nothing personal except his struggle with God's wrath. Nothing about his days as a fisherman in Scheveningen, the family he came from, the world of his youth which has disappeared as well as the life at sea he led as a fisherman. Nobody else was allowed to say anything. Or if they were, they didn't. There were no flowers, not even a single one on the coffin.

At the pit, we got another sermon of some ten minutes, another repeat and the awful warning that my uncle was exchanging his living quarters here for a dwelling in the heavenly realms above. But that for us that was not at all sure. If we did not experience God's wrath, and then his forgiveness, there would be no place in heaven for us when we would depart this life. It was most comforting!  He then concluded by saying the Credo, which we were only allowed to say silently in our hearts with him. Well, why do people belonging to such a denomination wonder that youngsters leave the church once they leave the protected environment of their parental home or their village and go to study at university?

There was a very small group of people left afterwards for the customary coffee and cake, as the black contingent from my uncle's village had left, some with their hats tucked away in big plastic bags, and there was hardly any family except his own children and some of his grand- and great-grandchildren. Such a contrast with my father's funeral when the church was packed and the preaching was about hope and God's love. And we as children had the opportunity to give a short resume of his life, his love for my mother, for us, his work for the church, his unfaltering faith in God's mercy and love, and in the resurrection. It was a true service of thanksgiving for his life, the life God had given him.

It was nice to see the two other cousins and the wife of one of them afterwards. We discussed a possible family reunion, as that would now be the only chance to meet, except for the funeral of an aunt at some point in time, who is an in-law.

I returned just when my time according to the parking metre was running out. Even when you go to a funeral, there are no free parking spaces in The Hague.

Then the day accelerated with a scheduled visit to my accountant for the tax forms; a shopping spree as therapy after the dismal morning, the excuse being that there is a sale on; a visit to the market for the healthy things in life, which seem not all that healthy now that a there is an epidemic going on in Germany supposedly brought on by agricultural produce. And then last but not least an unexpected visit from a friend for whom I cooked a meal, making use of all the fresh produce. We enjoyed the melon and cured ham, the fresh beans and the salmon fillets, all accompanied by a nice and cool chablis, and then big, sweet cherries, followed by a coffee.

It is always so much nicer to share a meal than to eat in solitude. The food tastes a lot better, and so it was a satisfactory ending to a memorable day.