(I invite you, as you read this post, to recollect your grandparents, or any elders who have gone before, paving the way, in this perpetual, eternal Circle of Life. Picture them as you read.)
Last week a beautiful funeral/memorial service took place here in Savannah for Fred Pierce, the eighty-five year old father of my daughter Amy’s fiancé Scott. You can read Mr. Pierce’s inspiring obituary here. What an active, productive life he lived!
My talented ten-year old grandson Daniel sang (beautifully, I might add!) the national anthem at the interment at our city’s much lauded Bonaventure Cemetery.
He then presented the flag to Fred’s wife Ruth.
Daniel, a Savannah child actor/singer, also sang at my mother’s funeral back in 2016. He was eight at the time.
And back in 2012, my father-in-law, the Rev. Billy Boggs, passed away. Daniel, four at that time, wanted to go into the funeral home’s visitation area to see his great-grandfather. “Abu, what’s back there?” He simply could not understand how, if Papa was supposed to be in Heaven, he could also be down that long hallway at the funeral home.
With approval from his parents, I took Daniel, in my arms, down that lively, deadly hallway toward his great-grandfather. I don’t know, you may have chosen differently. But I had been carrying D around all over the place for years. Why not here, I thought?
Here’s the story, from six years ago, from my NealEnJoy blog:
[As I mentioned in a previous post, my father-in-law passed away earlier this week. Death, of course, is difficult for anyone to cope with, but perhaps especially so for young children. Because they are still so close to birth, little beings of the morning, and because their life experience has been with newness and fresh discovery, with joy and giggles, death must seem unfathomable, foreign, outside of understanding.
But like most kids, my four-year-old grandson Daniel likes to understand: “Abu, why can’t I sit on top of your car? I could see a whole lot better.” “Abu, my teacher won’t let me bring my sword to school and fight like the blue Power Ranger. Why not?” “Why can’t I say potty words?” “Why do we have to wear clothes when it’s hot?” “Why?” “Why?” “Why?”
When his parents arrived at the funeral home north of Atlanta the other evening, they told me that Daniel had, as usual, been plying them with questions about the current subject which went beyond his grasp–his great-grandfather’s death. “But if Papa is in heaven, why will everyone be sad?” “Where IS Papa?”
I played with Daniel and his little brother Gabriel in the large kitchen area of the funeral home, where friends had brought mounds of food. Their mom and dad, Amy and Orte, walked through large white windowed doors and down a narrow hall that eventually led to a sitting room where the family received guests who came to pay their respect and offer condolences. Papa looked pre-cancerous in a striking gray suit, snow-white shirt, and brown and gray tie patterned with tiny crosses. He had been a Methodist minister in the North Georgia Conference. A large United States flag, achingly resplendent in red, white and blue liveliness, lay across the unopened lower half of the coffin. Papa was retired Air Force.
Every few minutes, Daniel ran over to tiptoe and peer through the windows of the white doors, gazing down that long hallway which twisted and turned but allowed no view of Papa. “Where are Mama and Daddy? I want to go too.” A few minutes later: “Why can’t I go in?” “Is Papa in there? Where?” “Let’s go in there, Abu.”
A while later, when we were eating lasagna in the kitchen, Daniel was still asking, asking. I made a decision, a decision you may not have made. I asked Daniel’s mom and dad if I could take him in to see Papa. They agreed, mainly (I think) because they trust me, and they know how much I love D.
I picked Daniel up and asked him if he knew what had happened to Papa. “He died,” came the quick answer. I told him that yes Papa had died. “And he’s in heaven,” Daniel added. His confusion centered on who or what was down that hall that everyone kept traversing. He wanted understanding, answers. He wanted to walk down that hall.
So we did.
The kitchen had been noisy with visitors loudly talking, eating, reminiscing, and occasionally laughing at the past. Its tiled floor amplified the clicks of my boot heels as we walked, Daniel in my arms, toward those doors, dividing doors which in my grandson’s mind led to answers. As we passed through them, my heels, like everything and everyone on that other side, grew quieter on the deep carpet.
We entered the viewing room, and walked past adults talking in hushed tones. Daniel kissed his Nana (Donna is the oldest of the four daughters of Papa), then his Great-Grandma, who sat regally next to the coffin. But his eyes were looking, searching.
Not expecting Papa to be lying down (why didn’t I think to tell him that detail?), Daniel finally found his great-grandfather.
He looked for a while, and finally asked quietly (Daniel doesn’t usually do “quiet” very well), “Is Papa sleeping?”
“No, not really sleeping. He died, remember?”
We stood there for about a minute, Daniel getting heavy in my arms.
“Are you ready to go, baby?”
Other folks waited patiently for their turn behind us. Daniel started to lean over toward the coffin, paused and looked at me for permission (and like “quiet,” D doesn’t always do “permission” well). I nodded, and Daniel touched the white satin edges of the liner and then Papa’s right arm.
Giggling just a bit, Daniel said, “It tickles.” I smiled.
“You ready now?”
We walked back through the hall, toward the kitchen. When we got to the doors, I saw through the windows my daughter Amy and Orte, waiting. I put Daniel down, and he pushed open the door. His dad asked him, “Are you okay, Daniel?”
But he was already off, running on the noisy tile, chasing his little brother. Doing “loud” once again.]
I invite you to take a moment and listen again (you’ve probably heard it a hundred times) to “Circle of Life” from The Lion King movie and play.
We are all on the journey. “The sun rolling high through the sapphire sky keeps great and small on the endless round.”
The circle keeps turning. “It’s the Circle of Life, and it moves us all.” What we have is nOw. Let’s embrace it, the nOwness of the circle.
While we have time.
Elton John’s version of “The Circle of Life”:
Broadway play’s version:
The Circle of Life.