Went to a funeral today - well, a requiem eucharist - for Betty Bradley, a stalwart of the Church of the Holy Apostles. It was impressive and very moving to see most of the congregation there on a Saturday afternoon. Would that every life was lived as fully as hers (she was ninety-one), and every passing marked by a community and liturgy like this one.
Betty came to New York in 1939 and worked for many years as a model in a department store, later designing clothes herself, and then working as a buyer. Always single, she had a vigorous social life. In her many decades of retirement she traveled, went to cultural events, birdwatched in Central Park - and attended just about every event or group or retreat put on by the parish. She was the most upbeat person anyone knew, almost to a fault - a neighbor said that they had been close for years but one had to abide by the "Betty rules," which included "don't complain," "don't gossip" and "don't be grim." I did not know her well, but gathered from people's memories that many had initially found her lacking in introspection until, at some point, her insouciance and capacity to delight in things came to seem a precious gift and inspiration. She told someone that she'd decided "years ago" that being angry or envious or resentful was a waste of time - and hadn't been since. One can imagine someone saying that but really seething with unexpressed anger, etc., but Betty was proof that this needn't be so. Betty joined the parish fourteen years ago, and clearly performed a vital function - as others got lost in the troubles of th world and their lives, along would come a "Betty comment" to turn things around: not everyone's bad, things usually turn out alright, don't be grim.
I've not been to a lot of funerals, and this lovely gathering (the choir sang the Fauré Requiem, and the Communion hymn was the lovely St Helena) made me sad once again that I couldn't attend the funerals of my paternal grandparents. (My mother's parents died before I was born.) It makes a difference to have one's passing marked by a community, one's life celebrated, and it felt deeply human to be there. How strange to think of all the people one knows, alive today, whose passing one won't be able to mark this way - or even hear about.
Betty came to New York in 1939 and worked for many years as a model in a department store, later designing clothes herself, and then working as a buyer. Always single, she had a vigorous social life. In her many decades of retirement she traveled, went to cultural events, birdwatched in Central Park - and attended just about every event or group or retreat put on by the parish. She was the most upbeat person anyone knew, almost to a fault - a neighbor said that they had been close for years but one had to abide by the "Betty rules," which included "don't complain," "don't gossip" and "don't be grim." I did not know her well, but gathered from people's memories that many had initially found her lacking in introspection until, at some point, her insouciance and capacity to delight in things came to seem a precious gift and inspiration. She told someone that she'd decided "years ago" that being angry or envious or resentful was a waste of time - and hadn't been since. One can imagine someone saying that but really seething with unexpressed anger, etc., but Betty was proof that this needn't be so. Betty joined the parish fourteen years ago, and clearly performed a vital function - as others got lost in the troubles of th world and their lives, along would come a "Betty comment" to turn things around: not everyone's bad, things usually turn out alright, don't be grim.
I've not been to a lot of funerals, and this lovely gathering (the choir sang the Fauré Requiem, and the Communion hymn was the lovely St Helena) made me sad once again that I couldn't attend the funerals of my paternal grandparents. (My mother's parents died before I was born.) It makes a difference to have one's passing marked by a community, one's life celebrated, and it felt deeply human to be there. How strange to think of all the people one knows, alive today, whose passing one won't be able to mark this way - or even hear about.
