Guest Posts
Death Perspectives: Funeral Director and Atheist
Today I’d like to start a series of irregular guest posts called “Death Perspectives”, where people from different religious and non-religious perspectives share how they understand death as informed by their religion. And I’m happy that my first guest post is from a fellow funeral director, Heather Hernandez.
After you read her post, ask her questions about how her perspective informs her views of dying, death and funerals. She’s very eloquent and can help you understand how an Atheist views death.
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It is a quiet moment, the one during a funeral service or a rosary or a mass. Someone – priest, preacher, family member – has asked us to bow our heads in prayer. I interlace my fingers, hands clasped in front of me. As I listen to the silence of people around me as they focus on their commune with God, I take the moment for a deep breath and a concentrated effort for the purity of blank meditation. My eyes are open, and I scan the room from the back corner. I’m not communicating with anyone but my own inner monologue. I hear the echo of “amen” as the prayer concludes, but not from my own throat.
I am an atheist.
I am a funeral director.
It is a unique thing to be a person without faith working in an industry where faith is often a driving force for what we do. Our funeral rites and rituals have a basis in religion more often than not, and I interact with people from all walks of religion on a daily basis. I appreciate that my families have beliefs to give them solace, faith to warm their hearts and dull the sharp sting of grief to an ache.
I am not usually an evangelical atheist. I would never dream of stepping outside of my role as a funeral director to criticize someone else’s rituals or step on their hopes of an afterlife. Lately, I only feel the need to speak up about my beliefs because non-believers are often painted in a negative light, as amoral and non-contributive to society and our communities. I look at myself and I don’t see that.
I am a military wife supporting a husband about to deploy to Afghanistan.
I am an animal-lover who stopped four lanes of traffic to rescue two terrified stray dogs.
I am a volunteer at my local library, teaching adults how to read.
The way that I choose to live is directly affected by my atheism. It’s hard for me to look at my husband, my parents, my sisters and my best friends and realize that in my reality there is no afterlife. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel or Heaven where we meet up and spend the rest of eternity in each others’ company.
What I do get is the realization that the here and now is all I get. I have to enjoy every single second that I get here, every breath I take, every opportunity to reach out and hold my husband’s hand or call my parents and tell them I love them. I don’t believe that I get a do-over or forgiveness to wipe the slate clean, and I am therefore my own harshest critic. I want to be remembered as someone who always did the right thing the right way, who served others and loved as hard as she could.
I am an atheist, but sometimes, even though I’m not thanking God, I take that quick moment of silence during the Lord’s Prayer to reflect and appreciate how grateful I am for the time I do have and all the wonderful ways I can spend it.
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Heather Hernandez is a mid-20s graduate of mortuary college, navigating the complexities of death care as a first generation funeral director. When she’s not running services, she’s also a wife, a dog-lover, and an amateur taxidermist. You can read her blog at http://mortuaryreport.com/ or check out her taxidermied mice and other artwork at http://www.etsy.com/shop/mortuaryreport.
It All Comes Down to Choice
Today’s guest post is written by Alece Ronzino and was originally hosted by A Deeper Story.
Alece is a New Yorker changed by Africa. She is the founder of One Word 365 and a communications coach for non-profits. She blogs candidly about searching for God in the question marks of life and faith.
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Someone asked me the other day where I’m at in my journey. She was talking about the traumatic loss and transition I’ve endured in just about every single area of my life over the past few years. “Do you feel like you’re on the other side of it?”
I didn’t really know how to answer that question because I don’t think she fully understood what she was asking (though I know she certainly meant well.)
I’m in a much better place than I’ve been in a long time. Although I’m painfully aware of how fragile it all is, life feels good right now. And I haven’t been able to say that truthfully in years.
But that doesn’t mean I’ve gotten over—or even through—my loss.
I think the idea of “recovery” from loss is a harmful and misleading mirage. It’s unrealistic to expect that life could ever go back to normal after catastrophic loss of any kind. In a way, life will be forever divided by before and after. And to strive to go back to normal—to return to how things were and how you felt before your loss—is like trying to get somewhere on a treadmill: exhausting and impossible.
I don’t know if I’m meant to come out on the other side of my heartache. At least not in the usual sense.
I’m discovering what it’s like to live in the delicate tension of sorrow and joy. What we deem to be opposites are not actually mutually exclusive. They can be—and maybe they should be—embraced together. We don’t move out of sorrow into joy, as if we’ve recovered from our heartache. Instead we learn to choose joy even when that seed of sorrow remains ever present.
Jerry Sittser, in A Grace Disguised, said it so beautifully:
“I did not go through pain and come out the other side; instead, I lived in it and found within that pain the grace to survive and eventually grow. I did not get over the loss of my loved ones; rather, I absorbed the loss into my life, like soil receives decaying matter, until it became a part of who I am.”
What happens in me matters far more than what happens to me. It’s not my experiences that define me, but my responses to them.
So instead of making it my aim to get through what’s happened to me, I am learning to focus on my response to what’s happened to me. As with most things, it all comes down to choice.
That’s the reason “choose” is my One Word for this year. Because I need constant reminding that even when I have nothing else, I always have the power to choose.
While I can’t control what’s going on in this world or in my life, I do have control over my responses to those things. So today—same as yesterday and the day before—it’s entirely up to me to choose how I will respond to pain and sorrow and loss. I need to continue to choose to face, feel, and work through it, rather than to avoid it. And I need to continue to choose joy and trust right here, right now.
So if you’re wondering where I’m at in my journey, know this: You can always find me right here, in the middle of the tension between joy and sorrow, grief and gratitude, weakness and strength, questions and faith.
Join me here, won’t you?
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Connect with Alece via the following:
Visit Alece’s blog | Follow her on Twitter | Join One Word 365
Unmet Expectations and Grief
The problem is that you, the grieving person, don’t know what you need and your loved ones don’t know how to help. This disparity often leads to a lot of conflict and unmet expectations, on both sides.
Throughout our experiences with my cancer and our child-loss, we have experienced a lot of unmet expectations and conflict in our relationships with others. We have wrongly expected that people should only use the words that are helpful and encouraging, while providing the exact support that we need from them, even though we, ourselves, had no clue what we needed.
Part of the struggle is that when people are in the middle of processing grief, their emotions are all over the place. And sometimes, the very last discussion we ever want to have is to confront someone on how they have hurt us through their words, actions, or inactions. Imagine how much more difficult this is for the grieving person. The reality is that all too often, a grieving person will allow these hurts to build up because these issues become secondary to the pain that caused their grief to begin with. When this happens, it can take weeks, months, even years, to sort through the myriad of pain and hurt caused from the lack of support they felt while they were grieving!
My encouragement to anyone who is grieving is that when you are hurt by words, action, or inaction, to discuss your hurt as soon as you can with the person who hurt you. If your loved one doesn’t know how you are feeling, they will likely continue using similar words, actions, or inactions, which will likely lead to more conflict in your relationship, and cause a bigger divide.
To help you do this, here are 4 steps I use to communicate my hurt with others because of unmet expectations:
1. Discuss what the unknown expectation was to begin with. I didn’t realize how important it was for me to have people acknowledge the first year of our daughter’s Birth and Death Day, until only a few people contacted us on “Kylie’s Day” to let us know they were thinking about our family.
2. Get to the heart of why the expectation was unmet. I was hurt because it seemed like people either didn’t remember this day that was so tragic for our family, or didn’t care, neither of which felt very good.
3. Figure out if the expectation needs to be adjusted or if the unmet expectation was simply a learning experience. For me, in this circumstance, I needed to do both – adjust my expectation and learn from it. When we brought up our hurt with people we thought would have remembered to call or write to us on Kylie’s Day, some of them remembered, but were afraid to call for fear of bringing up a hurtful memory. They didn’t know if we wanted people to call, if we wanted to be left alone, if we wanted to talk, or if we wanted to be reminded. We were able to talk immediately about our hurt and move forward in our relationships with a better understanding of where the other person was coming from.
4. Adjust your actions in the future. This is where I took what I learned from this unmet expectation. I now do my best to make sure that when someone I know experiences the death of a child that I write down important dates for them on my calendar. Sometimes, there are separate birth and death days, sometimes what is important is the original due date of their child, the day they miscarried, the day they had to give back a child they were intending to adopt, or the day the family buried their child. Then, I do my best to connect with these family and friends on these days, because the truth is that families hurting over the loss of a child, DO want family and friends to remember and acknowledge these milestones because it helps them feel like their child is loved.
Question: When you were grieving, did you have expectations of other people that were unmet? If so, how did you deal with this hurt?
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Author of Good Grief!, Erica McNeal is a three-time cancer survivor, who has also experienced the loss of five children. With sixteen years of experience in Youth, Marriage, and Women’s Ministries, Erica is passionate about equipping people to love others well through difficult times. She uses her experiences to teach people what not to say, what to say, and how to help when people are hurting. You can follow her on twitter: @toddanderica, or visit her website: www.ericamcneal.com.
Hello, My Daughter Died
Since Elli slipped into eternity 730 days ago, my daily reflections on her life have not faded. I still fold her pink pajamas and her flowery dresses, now worn by her little sister, some still slightly discolored around the neck from Elli’s drool. I love to watch Anna run and play in those clothes. They never moved that way with Elli in them.
The photos on the walls in our house, some taken weeks or months before she died, are of an 8-year-old Elli. It is strange to think that when we are 80, we will still have an 8-year-old Elli framed on our wall. We will not know a 10 or 12 or 25-year-old Elli. Her face is frozen at eight. I’m sure that is something all grieving parents have to come to grips with, and I still am.
I still dream about Elli. Often. In all of my dreams about her, she is active, able-bodied and full of life — more so than she was while on earth. I am not one to spiritualize dreams, but I have awakened many mornings with a smile on my face, because the dreams remind me that she is in that spiritual reality now. Heaven is hers.
Oh sure, tears can creep back in, in some scattered private moments when I least expect it. A speeding ambulance. A uniformed paramedic in line at Subway. A potato chip bag or a gallon of milk with the expiration date OCT 19. Small unexpected artifacts bring memories of the day, the morning she died, rushing back in.
Until the day I die, I will be a father of four. In my frequent “join-ups” with new colleagues at work, I will tell them about Elli because there is no other way I know. I cannot, with a good conscience, say, “I have 3 children.” I always say, “I have 3 children now. We lost our fourth, who was our oldest, at age 8 in 2008.” That feels right to me. And it has also opened up countless opportunities to share my faith that would have never otherwise emerged in a boring, get-to-know-you business lunch.
God has never stopped being good and gracious and kind in these 730 days. He has done much to mature each of us through what is often described as a parent’s worst nightmare. Her physical death has had a ripple effect of new spiritual life, both in our immediate family and beyond. Therefore, I cannot bring myself to call it a nightmare as I look back on it. All I see is beautiful grace budding up out of the ashes.
As Joy and I were making the short drive from the funeral home to the gravesite to bury Elli’s body, I remember turning to her and saying, “Time is going to go by so fast.” I was sensing the brevity of life at that moment, and how short a time we all spend from cradle to grave. Elli’s was especially short, but ours is not much longer, no matter how long we live.
I still sense that brevity — a bittersweet reminder that life is short, but heaven awaits. And today I am one year closer to seeing my little peanut again in the presence of the One I most long to see — the One who orchestrated it all the way He did, for my good and His glory.
We miss you, pumpkin.
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Today’s guest post if from Scott Bennett. Scott is a full-time writer for a global consumer goods company, currently specializing in social media. His daily bus commute became the canvas for his blog—Moving Bus Meditations—where he opens up about real life as a Christian husband and father. Scott is married to his best friend, Joy, author of the long-running blog Joy in This Journey. He tweets at @ScottB3nn3tt.
Being a Woman in the Death Care Industry
Amanda Boling
Growing up in a small rural area of Arkansas it never occurred to me that I couldn’t do anything just because I was a girl. The thought of working in the death care industry had crossed my mind a few times throughout high school but as a teenager I was more concerned with fitting in so I took the route of going to cosmetology school instead. After a few years of working in a salon I became bored and decided to move on to a new field, start a family, and was eventually laid off, which helped me make the decision to go back to school … funeral school.
The night before school started panic hit me. I thought “what if I’m the only woman in class?”
I was relieved to find that I was not the only girl but in fact that at least half of the students were female. I was surprised to learn that 57 percent of U.S. mortuary school graduates are women. The industry is definitely changing but it still shocks so many people to find out what my major is. The reactions I’ve received have ranged from nervous laughter to silence. I’ve even had a person that bluntly said “I didn’t realize women did that.”
I’m never offended by these reactions but I know that people look at me differently. I honestly don’t care if people think I’m odd. I believe the death care industry is extremely important to society and so often people chose to ignore that because we as a society do not like to think about death.
After a few months of classes I started an apprenticeship with a local family owned funeral home and I knew right away that I wouldn’t be able to blend in as I had in the past with previous jobs. Most of the funeral homes in the area are family owned and consist of men fifty years and older.
When I was hired, I learned that there was no such thing as a dress code for women so we had to come to an agreement on what would be appropriate for death calls, visitations, and funerals. Another obstacle that I faced was the fact that all the men wore matching ties and suits on certain days of the week.
The owner offered to buy me a few reasonably priced suits if I could find something that closely matched theirs to “fit in.” I thanked him for the offer but thought to myself “A twenty six year old female is going to attract attention no matter what hanging around a funeral home.” Despite the age and gender difference I’ve still managed to jump right in with the guys and do what needs to be done.
The biggest problem I believe I have faced so far is the fact that men underestimate me being a woman. Because there is a fair amount of lifting involved in this line of work the men call upon each other for assistance completely overlooking me.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t believe they ignore me to be rude but rather out of respect so I find myself constantly reminding them “I’m not as delicate and fragile as you think.” I do realize that I’m not always capable of doing everything alone but I’ve never let that stop me from pursuing my career.
Besides the obvious fact that hair dressing and makeup are not a challenge for me, being a woman in the industry is always a nice way to start a conversation when you find yourself working a funeral or visitation. I find it interesting how people are curious and seek me out to strike up conversations.
I love meeting new people especially the older generations. They always seem to be very eager to talk to me (especially the men) and find out why I do what I do. I tell them I enjoy my job because it’s not your ordinary 8-5 grind and you provide a service to families in need at the same time.
I never really thought much about it but I suppose a woman can be more approachable than a man when you are distressed and in need of comfort. It never ceases to amaze me when complete strangers open up to me and tell me how important a simple smile was to them as they passed me during the service.
When you think of important qualities that a funeral director should possess it would most certainly include being approachable, comforting, compassionate, and friendly so I think that we may have the upper hand in the so called boys club when it comes to that aspect. I’m certainly not saying that men aren’t capable of this but I think most men would agree that it may come more naturally for a woman. While I understand that this may not be the easiest profession for me to join I love the challenge and hope that other women will follow.
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I’m a 26 year old single mom from Brookland, Arkansas. I expect to have my funeral degree by May 2013. When I’m not chasing a toddler I enjoy all things girly. I have a slight obsession with fingernail polish, and I enjoy spending time with my boyfriend who is also a funeral director.
