Last month, I went to two funerals in two days. They were the highlight of the week.

Not that I’m happy when people pass. I was so sad for my three high school friends who’s parents died. I cannot imagine their overwhelming grief.

But these three deaths were the culmination of three long and loved lives, and there was as much joy and gratefulness as sorrow in the final goodbyes.

It would have been a different vibe if it had been a child or a spouse. Instead, the trifecta of funerals meant togetherness in quiet spaces, warm memories from the hilarious to the momentous, and an abundance of gratitude as icing on the cake.

Getting together with forever friends is such a gift

The funerals were more than just an opportunity to see friends. The gift was the commitment, a can’t-miss date and time on the calendar to just be together, un-rushed, and unhurried. I was grateful for the obligation; being forced to take the time, time to truly appreciate and ruminate about my friends, my health, my time with my own parents. It struck me how lucky I was to go to these three funerals, to comfort my high school friends, to get to see my friends’ parents as the whole individuals they were all along.

Our lives are so busy, chock full of jobs and caring for children and parents and spouses, that we don’t think we have time to reconnect.

Even without a three-hour drive from Boston since moving back home this summer, I haven’t managed to see much of my still-local friends. Some I haven’t seen in real life in years. Penciled-in dates or text suggestions to “get together” play second fiddle to a frantic 2022 life and are pushed back indefinitely.

But here we were on “busy” workday and weekend mornings, doing the same thing in the same place at the same time

It was like all the good parts of being in college, and it was wonderful. In between the service and the reception, we went out for coffee and conversation at a coffeeshop: four gray-haired swimming buddies with so many common life threads. The gravity of the day meant we didn’t waste too much time time catching up on trivia. Our warm drinks arrived and we dove into hard conversations – of mental illness and caretaking, and reminiscing. So many memories! So many changes and so much the same. It blew me away.

Funerals force you to slow down. And appreciate what you have

Sitting in the church I went to every Sunday all through middle school and high school, the wash of memories was strong, more sentiment than story. The art deco stained glass windows were easy on my eyes, and the pew felt fine, even up against my bony, 53-year-old knees. The words and ritual and smells were familiar and comfortable.

I had turned off my phone, but couldn’t turn off my brain. A brain surrounded by hushed voices but running full tilt has ample opportunity to go off the beaten path. I did manage to not think about work, and I was surprised and pleased with the random thoughts that popped into my mind.

Is it OK for an atheist to pray alongside the believers?

I had this thought at both services. I haven’t been to mass in decades, but when the minister asked us to join him in prayer, I bowed my head and recited the Our Father as if I said it every day.

The urge to be part of the ritual was almost overwhelming. I suppose it’s much the same as my daughter, who’s vegan, eating the turkey along with everyone else when invited to dinner. Participating fully is how we honor the moment.

But it’s more than that, because it’s not about my religious beliefs at all. It’s about what will bring comfort to the friends and family left behind. Ritual and community is a special salve for that hurt. We’re all going to die. No need to be a jerk about it.

What do I want my funeral service to be?

One funeral was in a funeral home, one was a christian burial in a Catholic church. There was a lot of “Christ” and “heaven” in both. I know that’s not for me. But as I listened and reflected I realized how much I don’t yet know what **is** for me at the end.

The funeral is closure: a way to help those that are left cope with loss, and I will admit that the promise of a cheery afterlife as a reward for a life well-lived is comforting. I tried imagining my own funeral, one without bible readings or a mention of an afterlife I don’t believe in (thought I’d love to be wrong about this!) and came up a little short.

What would be the backbone of closure and comfort for my friends and family? What would be the “reading” that would be most meaningful to many? It’s hard to think of a more appropriate poem than the psalm that begins “though I walk in the shadow of death…”. If the bible isn’t so comforting to me, it is certainly comforting to many. A party roast doesn’t seem quite right. I had more questions than answers, and that’s OK. That’s life.

There’s nothing like death to remind you to live

I thought I learned this lesson thoroughly after my car accident at age 16, but obviously it’s a lesson that bears learning again.

In fact, the very next day three friends and I got together for dinner. Connecting had been on my to-do wish list for months, but it was funerals that kicked our butts and got us to finally do it. Because – as my fiend whose mom died said – time is short, and you never know how much or how little time you have less. True, that.

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