By Amy Butler
A long-time member of our church went on to her heavenly reward a few weeks ago. Flora was the soul of kindness and grace, serving as an usher every single Sunday, welcoming people to worship from the same corner at the back of the sanctuary each week. Flora was one of those ladies who might occasionally wear a hat to church because she was proper and gracious like that. The soul of kindness and grace, Flora was a favorite church friend of mine.
And so, I was particularly dismayed the other day when, after her funeral on the way to the cemetery there was a small accident. It was a car accident to be exact, and I was responsible. It was not a proper or gracious moment befitting the memory of my friend, to say the least.
After the service everyone lined up for the motorcade to the cemetery. There was the funeral home’s car, followed by me, the hearse carrying the coffin and then several limousines carrying family members.
Travel in a funeral procession is probably a dangerous form of transport anywhere, but after my experience I am going to venture that it might be especially so in a big city like Washington, D.C. In fact, it was in the middle of one of the larger intersections downtown that a car cut right in front of the lead car, forcing him to slam on the brakes.
Being deep in thought (probably praying), I was not paying close enough attention to react in time, and thus my bumper had the occasion to meet the bumper of the lead car. Right in the middle of the intersection, everyone stopped — the lead car, me, the hearse, the limousines — everyone.
Under normal accident circumstances, one would get out of the car and compare insurance cards, but I wasn’t quite sure about the protocol in this case. Do funeral procession lead cars even have insurance cards? The driver of the lead car didn’t seem any better prepared for how to respond in this particular scenario.
He came up to my window to make sure I was still alive. I told him urgently to get back in his car and keep going, that I would not try to break out of the funeral procession and flee the scene and that we could exchange insurance information after the committal service was over.
My only consolation was that it was the lead car instead of the hearse. Visions of the back door popping open and a coffin careening across Massachusetts Avenue made me feel sick to my stomach. Flora would not think this was proper at all, trust me.
We made it to the cemetery without further incident. I did not pray during the rest of the ride. I kept my eyes focused on the back of that lead car and my foot near the brake.
After the committal service, I exchanged insurance information with the funeral home and was preparing to slink away as unnoticed as possible. Flora’s grandson caught me and asked if I was okay after “the incident.” I solemnly assured him I was and apologized again. As I plotted my escape with “sorry for your loss, must go, etc.,” Flora’s grandson suddenly burst into laughter hard and loud.
“My Grandmother would have loved this,” he said. “I can tell you right now she is up in heaven laughing until she cries.”
It turns out that Flora was quite a cut up. She loved to play practical jokes, reveled in the ridiculous and found humor in the silliest things. He thanked me for bringing levity to his grandmother’s funeral, remembering her in just the perfect way.
I’d always been grateful for Flora’s grace and kindness. That day I prayed with thanks to God for her sense of humor.
But not on the drive home.