An Audacious Eulogy

Some stories should never be told. At least they shouldn’t be told until no one can exact revenge on the teller. Grandpa passed away over five years ago, and Grandma died last month, so this is my eulogy; only instead of expounding on the good qualities of generations past, in keeping with the Scriptures, I will only present the truth—Grandma was no poet. Yes, she loved Grandpa, almost as much as she loved the church, almost as much as she loved God, almost as much as she loved Jesus, almost as much as she loved people knowing she loved Jesus, but she was no poet.

We discovered that on a Sunday afternoon. At seventeen, I would have rather spent the day perusing the latest issue of Star Wars or Silver Surfer, but we had to answer the summons to Grandma’s—there was no choice. And at Grandma’s there was nothing to do but listen to the adults talking, advancing through a field of topics, trying not to step on a landmine. Luckily, we children were usually under the radar, but to avoid detection, I couldn’t smuggle a comic book into Grandma’s. When Mom was young, the list of contraband material included The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and Little Women. The church taught that reading fiction would pervert the imagination, making people believe in fantasy instead of the realities found in the Good Book such as talking bushes, walking on water and rising from the dead. So, if Grandma caught me with a comic book—bang! She would explode with holy fervor, demanding that I join the church to savor the fruits of heavenly salvation instead of languishing in my half-heathen status. According to Grandma, Mom was already lost for leaving the church and marrying Dad, but my sister and I were still considered salvageable (Grandma never knew we read Heavy Metal).

Grandma’s marriage to Grandpa, however, guaranteed her entry to Heaven. When Mom was thirteen, Grandma married Grandpa, a part-time minister, and moved from Boston to Canada. And that day, that fateful day, the family was summoned to Grandma and Grandpa’s to celebrate their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.

Mom’s stomach churned for twenty-five days before, hoping she had the appropriate gift, the appropriate dress, the appropriate casserole, and most of all, she prayed her children would have the appropriate behavior.

But, how was she to know? Temptation lurked within the holiest of places.

My grandparents’ apartment shone like a pew and smelled like lemon pine tree. In the far corner stood an organ where Grandma played for Jesus seven days a week. As a teenager, Mom was banned from listening to songs like I Want to Hold Your Hand, and I Can’t Help Falling in Love With You. The church taught that the Devil’s music would tempt youth to experience the root of original sin—dancing. Dancing ignited the lust lurking in every breast. Grandma and Grandpa didn’t even dance at their wedding. It was rumored that Uncle John, their only son together, was a second immaculate conception.

He was there that day, along with fifteen others, including me, my sister and four cousins. At seventeen, Cousin Ray was the oldest, and at thirteen, my sister Bonnie was the youngest; teenagers and adolescents, blood and hormones, water and nitroglycerin, what could my mother do, what could any adult do to head off the oncoming explosion?

We gathered to say grace over salads, chick-pea casseroles and gluten burgers; the church expounded the merits of vegetarianism; control of the body led to control of the mind and purification of the spirit. Ten years before, Grandma and the minister’s wife made a pact to go on a vegan diet—no meat, no dairy—to make their bodies as healthy and pure as possible. The diet ended, and so did Grandma’s ability to digest lactose. Thus, Grandma developed a pure mind, pure body and a pure case of osteoporosis.

After dinner, everyone was herded into the living room, adults gathering around Grandma and Grandpa, teenagers shepherded to the side. We whispered to each other, what now? The food was gone and the presents were opened. What else was left?

The cake. Yes, we had to stay for the cake.

But, what should we do until then? Grandma and Grandpa never showed movies or played music, unless it was on the organ. With an inward groan, we prepared for a lengthy adult conversation.

But, we were wrong.

Grandma announced that she had a special gift for Grandpa, a gift she wanted to share with the family. She brought out a handmade scroll and unfurled it.

We watched and waited, curious, thankful it wasn’t a boring adult conversation.

Oh, but it was more, so much more.

Grandma read the work that commemorated her twenty-fifth anniversary, a poem.

            When you took my hand,

my heart had wings.

The universe began with a bang. Life crawled out of the ocean. Grandpa touched Grandma.

Cousin Jeff squirmed. Aunt Cathy glared at him, threatening to burn him to ashes if he made a sound.

Grandma unfurled the scroll and read the next stanza,

            When I first saw you,

I heard church bells.

Bonnie let out a little squeak, like a Rhesus monkey. I squeezed my mouth shut, forcing the bubble of laughter down my throat, down my chest, down my stomach, making my gut tickle-burn. We couldn’t laugh. God help us if we laughed! Laughing would be tantamount to drawing a Hitler mustache on the Virgin Mary.              

The poem continued, each image, each cliché threatening to set us off like Russian Roulette, click-click-click. I didn’t look at Cousin Leanne. I didn’t look at Cousin Melanie. I really didn’t look at Cousin Ray. If our eyes met, like fire to gunpowder, we’d ignite, our laughter exploding through the living room, our parents the first casualties.

Grandma placed the poem on her lap and wiped her eyes.

The parents breathed a collective sigh.

Grandma lifted the scroll, unfurled it and continued to read. The poem went on, stanza after stanza, line after line, repeating over and over,

I heard church bells.

Cousin Leanne stared at the wall, unmoving.

Cousin Ray’s breath came in short, hot spurts.

Bonnie crawled under the table, her fortress.

I heard church bells.

The bubble rose up my stomach to the back of my throat, pressing against my clenched teeth.

Then, I witnessed the subject of Grandma’s tribute. Grandpa sat silent, hands squeezed between his knees, face glowing crimson. His eyes met mine with a silent plea.

I forced the bubble down, holding my breath until tears streamed down my face.

The poem ended. The children didn’t make a sound, survival of the fittest.

Grandma wiped her eyes, touched that her homage moved some of us to tears.

Some stories should never be told. Some poems should never be read. So now I’ve revealed the family secret:  Grandma loved Grandpa, almost as much as she loved the church, almost as much as she loved Jesus, almost as much as she loved people knowing she loved Jesus, but Grandma was no poet. And now that I’ve relayed the tale, one day Cosmic Justice will cast me into a sea of fire, where I will spend eternity unfurling an endless scroll, reading verse after verse, stanza after stanza, repeating into infinity:  I heard church bells.