A Missed Funeral

One evening after dinner in early December, I was called to Father Cassian’s room. This did not seem unusual since his room was right next to mine, and we sometimes discussed philosophy and history. He seemed in a more serious mood than usual. After very brief small talk, he said he had some bad news. My grandmother had died earlier that day and would be buried later that week.

The news was not particularly surprising. She had been ill for years and had been taking medication for a heart condition, although she had never been hospitalized. I remembered her house as the first place I had lived. My father was in the navy during World War II when I was born. My mother and I lived with my grandparents while my father was overseas. When my father came home, my mother tried to introduce us. Instead of going to him, I ran to the picture of my father, insisting that this was my father rather than the live man before me.

I thought for a long time that I had two mothers. I did not understand when my father returned from the war and our family moved to our own house. My mother loved me, but also set limits. My grandmother just loved me. After we moved, we frequently visited my grandparents, and I often stayed with them for part of the summer.

My grandmother was a serene person. She always spoke quietly and had a kind word for everyone. Even though I was the third grandchild, I felt special to her. I was the only one who lived with her. She often called me a “minx.” I was particularly fond of hiding the agitator cap from her washing machine. Although she would try to scold me, she could not hold back her laugh very long and would soon be well into stories about my uncles’ antics. We would then be off to the cellar to see where the cap may have been “lost.” When I grew older, we also had our secret beer in the kitchen after all the relatives had been served their drinks. My grandmother was present at all the major events of my life. I remembered pictures of her at my baptism, first communion, and confirmation. Her presence was not prominent, but quietly reassuring.

One of my last memories of her was at my grandfather’s funeral. He had been suffering from a heart condition, but insisted on shoveling snow and had died suddenly in the process. Although sad on this occasion, my grandmother was filled with the good memories of her years with him. She let him go quietly as she had lived with him in peace.

I had not seen my grandmother for over a year, since entering the novitiate, and she was too ill to travel to my Profession. Still, I always thought of her as being there for me. It was hard to imagine her as gone. My ultimate refuge was no more.

Funerals in our family had always been a time of family gathering and mutual support. Everyone dropped work, school or other commitments to come together to comfort each other. There were family stories about rooms full of sleeping children, patrolled by an aunt/nun, while the adults talked into the night.

My first thought at hearing about my grandmother’s death was of being together with my family in grief and comfort. They would all share their memories of my grandmother. Others would hear of my shared beer in the kitchen and I would hear of their experiences of closeness with her.

I told Father Cassian I would like to go to her funeral. He told me the policy was that students were only allowed to attend funerals of immediate family members. I told him my grandmother was like my mother and I had lived with her until I was three. He told me the finances of the Order did not allow for such travel. I said I was sure my family would be willing to pay my travel expenses. Father Cassian reminded me that, since my vows, the Order was now my family and I could not go to the funeral.

I left his room in shock, not expecting this turn of events. I went to my room and wept in desolation. I was convinced I should be at the funeral. I had no money, even to call my family. I considered hitchhiking the several hundred miles from West Springfield to Dunkirk and thought I could get to the funeral on time.

I was angry at Father Cassian and thought he lacked understanding. Life suddenly seemed unfair. How could anyone keep me from being with my family to say good-bye to my grandmother? As my anger subsided, I realized I had reached a major crisis point. I knew I needed to make a choice between my family and the monastic life I had worked so long to reach. I also knew, if I went to the funeral, I would not come back to the monastery.

I walked for hours in the monastery garden, weighing the possibilities. I did not feel I could turn to anyone to help me with the decision, even Gerry and John. The choices were clear. The implications were not. The mystique of the monastic life weighed against my love for my grandmother. No matter what I decided, part of me would die.

My first adult decision was to accept the director’s authority and to stay at the monastery, rather than attending the funeral. But I felt I was betraying my grandmother and she was being ripped from me rather than going quietly, as was the custom in our family.

At Mass on the morning of the funeral, all of the monks were asked to pray for me, my grandmother and our family. Although this was some comfort, the loneliness was not lessened much. The bonds of the religious community were too new to reassure me. I remained confused and uncertain of my decision. It was now too late to attend the funeral.