I’ll be seeing you

My family sat across the aisle from me; Mom on the outside, then Pop, then my brother Doug. My mom hissed and made jerking motions with her index finger. Go on, get up there. Pop, dressed in his best leisure suit, also nodded with a scowl. Hoo boy.

It was Confirmation Sunday, and we newly minted members sat in the front row in our white frocks. Our families sat opposite us. After two years of study, we’d just finished a weekend retreat as a grand finale and everybody was in a festive mood.

Our Pastor, Ron Jensen, was officiating. He was everything you’d want in a pastor: kind, gracious, energetic, a great speaker. His sermons…even to me, a 14 yo kid…left me thinking. On this Sunday, our parents beamed as he went through his ecclesiastical duties.

Finally, the formal part was over; we had all been called to the altar, had taken Communion, had had a blessing given. Now came the part I dreaded.

Pastor Jensen smiled. “I am so very proud of these young people,” he said. “They’ve worked very hard, and this past weekend, we had a retreat to reflect on all that we’ve learned. I’d like to now invite some of our newest members to come up and share their thoughts.”

Nobody wanted to go first. Everybody looked at each other, digging elbows and whispering. Finally one kid got up and went to the lectern. As he turned to face the congregation, you could see his eyes widen; there were probably 250 people in attendance. The kid squeaked out a few words, then hurriedly returned to the safety of the front row.

But the ice had been broken, and the other kids…egged on by their parents…managed to get up and say a few words. I was the last holdout and my mom was making it clear that a no-show by her kid was not an option.

I was short for my age and had to bend the microphone over. It made a feedback whine, prompting a chuckle from the congregation and smirks from my friends. I could barely see over the top of the lectern. I don’t recall what I said, but it was spectacularly forgettable. Lots of uhs and throat clearing and even one instance of my voice cracking. My toes curled, my face burned and I couldn’t get back to the anonymity of the white smock section soon enough.

Thirty six years later, I found myself back at that same lectern. Many of the faces from that long-ago Confirmation Sunday were there again, albeit older. Some were missing, and there were many unfamiliar ones. But in the front row again were Pastor Jensen, Pop, and Doug. But not mom. To my left, in front of the altar, she lay in her casket.

I had some notes prepared and I cleared my throat. I began, but the stiff, prepared words didn’t sound right. I ditched the speech and began speaking extemporaneously. I found myself discussing her: how she had guided me in my faith, how she had helped, encouraged, taught me. Our talks as she was making dinner. I recounted funny stories over the years. At times my vision blurred. I don’t know where the words came from, but they were exactly the right ones.

At the receiving line in the Narthex, I was the last one to shake hands with Pastor Jensen; I was now eye-to-eye with him. He held my hand and my gaze. “Well,” he said with a smile. “That was some speech.” He paused. “I would say…uhm… that was a WHOLE LOT better than the last time I heard you up there.” I guess I looked sheepish. He laughed and embraced me. “Your mom would have loved that,” he said.

We walked into the courtyard, ringed with palm trees; a sudden breeze caressed us both.

I think she did.