MOM'S LAST LAUGH

Consumed by my loss, I
didn’t notice the
hardness of the pew
where I sat. I was at
the funeral of my
dearest friend — my
mother. She finally had
lost her long battle with
cancer. The hurt was so
intense, I found it hard
to breathe at times.
Always supportive,
mother clapped loudest
at my school plays, held
a box of tissues while
listening to my first
heartbreak, comforted
me at my father’s
death, encouraged me
in college, and prayed
for me my entire life.
When mother’s illness
was diagnosed, my
sister had a new baby
and my brother had
recently married his
childhood sweetheart,
so it fell on me, the 27-
year-old middle child
without
entanglements, to take
care of her. I counted it
an honor.
“What now, Lord?” I
asked sitting in church.
My life stretched out
before meas an empty
abyss. My brother sat
stoically with his face
toward the cross while
clutching his wife’s
hand.
My sister sat slumped
against her husband’s
shoulder, his arms
around her as she
cradled their child. All so
deeply grieving, no one
noticed I sat alone. My
place had been with our
mother, preparing her
meals, helping her walk,
taking her to the
doctor, seeing to her
medication, reading the
Bible together. Now she
was with the Lord. My
work was finished and I
was alone.
I heard a door open and
slam shut at the back
of the church. Quick
footsteps hurried along
the carpeted floor. An
exasperated young man
looked around briefly
and then sat next to
me. He folded his hands
and placed them on his
lap. His eyes were
brimming with tears.
He began to
sniffle. ”I’m late,” he
explained, though no
explanation was
necessary. After
several eulogies, he
leaned over and
commented, “Why do
they keep calling Mary
by the name of
‘Margaret’?”
“Oh” “Because that
was her name,
Margaret. Never Mary.
No one called her ‘Mary,’
I whispered. I wondered
why this person
couldn’t have sat on the
other side of the church.
He interrupted my
grieving with his tears
and fidgeting. Who was
this stranger anyway?
“No, that isn’t correct,”
he insisted, as several
people glanced over at
us whispering, “Her
name is Mary, Mary
Peters.”
“That isn’t who this is,
I replied..”
“Isn’t this the Lutheran
church?”
“No, the Lutheran
church is across the
street.”
“Oh.”
“I believe you’re at the
wrong funeral, Sir.”
The solemnness of the
occasion mixed with the
realization of the man’s
mistake bubbled up
inside me and came out
as laughter.
I cupped my hands over
my face, hoping it
would be interpreted as
sobs.
The creaking pew gave
me away. Sharp looks
from other mourners
only made the situation
seem more hilarious. I
peeked at the
bewildered, misguided
man seated beside
me.He was laughing,
too, as he glanced
around, deciding it was
too late for an
uneventful exit.
I imagined mother
laughing.
At the final “Amen,”
we darted out a door
and into the parking lot.
“I do believe we’ll be
the talk of the town,”
he smiled. He said his
name was Rick and
since he had missed his
aunt’s funeral, asked
me out for a cup of
coffee.
That afternoon began a
lifelong journey for me
with this man who
attended the wrong
funeral, but was in the
right place.
A year after our
meeting, we were
married at a country
church where he was
the assistant pastor.
This time we both
arrived at the same
church, right on time. In
my time of sorrow, God
gave me laughter. In
place of loneliness, God
gave me love. This past
June we celebrated our
twenty-second
wedding anniversary.
Whenever anyone asks
us how we met, Rick
tells them, “Her mother
and my Aunt Mary
introduced us, and it’s
truly a match made in
heaven.”