Neon Bible, Arcade Fire

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die” (Eccl. 3:1-2).  It is the circle of life.  We can be accepting of these times, but there is still an inherent pain associated with the word “death.”

A month ago, after my grandfather died, I remembered that you cannot prepare for this news.  The part you can prepare for, that you must prepare for, is the farewell.  Funerals are not for the dead, they are for the living.  A way to say goodbye to those who mean something to you.  My grandfather had specific plans for his.  There was to be no singing, only his sons-in-law would speak and I believe he went so far as to pick his own readings.  Luckily, my mother is as stubborn as her father.

As the preparations were being made, both for my return and my grandpa’s funeral, conversations with my parents were hurried and brief.  Each side would throw out questions, answers and then hang up.  Calls to the United States from Panama, despite excellent deals available, are costly.  My mom, in one such conversation, informed me that I would be doing a reading, since I was the one she trusted to pronounce Ecclesiastes properly.

After finally arriving in Los Angeles, I was greeted with a surprisingly welcome feeling – I missed Panama.  I missed my community.  I had been there only two weeks, and I missed the people, the beach, the heat and even my mosquito net.  In a short time, Panama was converted into my home.  But the people I was about to see, both family and friends, were also my home, and I couldn’t wait to see them.

I always idolized my Grandfather.  I thought he was the smartest person I knew.  He always was interested in what I was doing, asked about my classes, whether I was in elementary, high school or university.  He always voiced an interest, whether I was studying business, language or ecology.  I was dreading stepping into his house and having him not be there, not be able to ask me about Panama, make jokes about blow guns and monkeys, and suddenly, I wish I had stayed in Panama.

We went inside, I sat with my grandma, my great aunt and uncle – my grandfather’s brother and my aunts as my parents went to get my brother and his girlfriend.  I drank American beer, took deep breathes and ate pizza.  I answered questions, I asked my own.  Patrick showed up, we hugged, we ate more, drank more, they went off to the hotel, I took a bath and slept on the couch.

Still not adjusted to the time or the place, I awoke early the next morning, writing, thinking and laying back pretending to be sleeping, hoping that the imagination would lead to the action.  My mom arrived, we all got ready, and I asked to see my reading.  “At the church,” she promised.  We ate, we drank coffee, we drove to the church.

My mother worked with the priest to pick readings that were not only appropriate for a funeral, but also spoke to her father.  I looked over my reading, whispering the words allowed, tears forming in my eyes.  I ignored them.  We greeted people arriving, we sat down, the service started.  My father, my brother and I walked up to the front of the church.

My reading was from Ecclesiastes, a book supposedly by the son of David, King of Jerusalem.  The book is a group of lessons, dictated from a teacher.  The lessons I read were of timing.  There is a time for everything, for living, dying, planting, reaping, killing, healing, and breaking down.  It is a reminder that we do not have complete control over that which happens, whether a belief in God is part of your life or not.  There are things out of our control, but everything, good and bad, has its time.  And until these times, we must keep ourselves busy with the task at hand.

I had this moment, this time to breathe, to mourn, but my time, my task at hand is in Panama, working with my people, my community.  I am allowed to mourn, allowed to miss, allowed to see.  My focus must be on my task, whether it is God or Human given.