Grace Will Lead Me Home

This is my stream of consciousness from my Grandma's funeral this past month. If I could, I would hear from everyone there, everyone's inner voices collecting together as memory and feeling.



We are eleven, my parents and siblings and I. Mother and father; five boys and four girls. We are mighty in the spaces we inhabit, our separate lives, but more so when together. I believe this.


I got on a plane in Quito at midnight, landing at 4:30am in Miami even though it was 3:30 back in Ecuador. An hour lost. Normally I fly in to Dallas and get a couple extra hours of semi-sleep, but not this time. Through customs and to my gate, I hauled my luggage with me into a bathroom so I could wash my face, put in my contacts, and change clothes. Try to feel human after hours on a stuffy plane. I sat and waited to board the next flight, marveling at the tiny treat of being able to watch the news in English.

My brother Huck picked me up from the airport and drove me to my sister Teal's house. The three of us drove six hours to East Texas. We met my parents and two youngest siblings at the funeral home for the viewing, my grandmother laid out in a casket. We slept at my aunt Tina's house, welcoming and warm. I dreamed of nothing, drenched in a tiredness of body and spirit. How strange to be there, with only two days warning. How strange to not be able to imagine not being there.

The rest of my siblings left early in the morning the day of the funeral, driving there and back in one long day. It was a Monday, and the four of them couldn't easily take off work and school for any longer. The eleven of us drove to a local dining hall for a lunch which was provided for the whole family. A slew of aunts, uncles, cousins - and all the greats and once-removed ones mixed in - converged on the dining hall. We ate and talked and took photos. It's been too long, they said. It had been since the last funeral. But when you live so many hours apart, that's how it is. You smile to see each other, even while all wearing black.

We went to the church. Someone approached my Dad, I don't recall who, and asked,
"Will you be doing one of the readings? Who will do the other?"
My Dad turned to me and asked if I would read a passage of scripture with him. I hesitated. My immediate thought was yes, followed by a shadow of doubt. Shouldn't someone else do it? Someone closer to my Grandma?
"Yes, if you're sure you want me to," I replied. The service started soon.
My Dad and I were led into the sanctuary, away from the atrium where my relatives spoke in hushed tones and my brother Huck was putting on white gloves and having a simple boutonniere pinned to his shirt in preparation for being a pallbearer. A priest greeted my Dad and I and asked if we'd ever done a reading before and if we had the material with us. He looked at us as though expecting us to produce papers or Bibles from behind our backs, acting surprised that we didn't have anything prepared. We were asked just now, I thought, but before I could speak he led us to the pulpit and showed us the pages of printed verses all laid out. Why had he given us a hard time, then? Was this a priest's version of humor at a funeral?
"You walk up and stand here. The pulpit is miked. Just speak clearly. Of course, it's tradition to give a small bow to the alter on your way to the pulpit."
My Dad and I each took a page and sat reading over them in silence. I was given Psalm 19. In my head I decided where to pause, where to let my voice rise and fall, which words to enunciate above others. I thought of the book "Jane Of Lantern Hill", and of the part where Jane learns how to enjoy reading the Bible. For most of her childhood she is tortured by nerves, for her grandmother is cruelly strict and judging. When told to read the Bible (tedious passages at that), she stumbles and stutters, loathing the whole experience. Until her father discovers this aversion and teachers her to love reading aloud, especially the Bible. Suddenly Jane has confidence. She reads with passion, expression, exuberance. The words are alive.


My relatives filed into the sanctuary and took their seats. To my left, the mariachi band entered and took their places. When my Grandpa died a few years before, one of my aunts used bingo winnings to hire a mariachi band to play during the funeral. It was beautiful, celebratory of a full life and mournful both at once.  As everyone rose and turned to face the casket being wheeled slowly in by my brother and cousins, the band played a haunting rendition of "Amazing Grace".

My Dad read. As he walked back down I stood, passing him to go to the pulpit. I felt aware of so many tiny things: my short hair in a knot at the nape of my neck; the sheer black top I wore tied over my dress to shadow the tattoos on my back; the navy blue wedges worn only twice before, and of concentrating on taking even, sure steps in them; the pause and bow at the alter, a thing completely foreign to me, and finally of reaching the pulpit, facing the crowd, eyes lowered to the pages as I began to read.

Back in my seat. My Mom squeezing my hand. The congregation rising and kneeling and sitting. Repeating the echoing words of the priest. Listening to the eulogy. Being washed over in the music. Standing as the casket is rolled away, out to the hearse, everyone getting into their cars to follow.

The drive to the grave site, and the snafu with the police not being in place to block the first intersection and therefore getting separated from the procession for a time. The wind whipping around in chilly gusts at the gravesite, everyone clutching jackets, shawls, and even blankets against the sudden cold. The final words and blessings. Walking around to sprinkle sand on the gravesite and touch the casket in farewell. Visiting the nearby graves of aunt Tisha and cousin Ava, taken three years before. My aunt Tina, weeping, and my Dad sitting beside his sister to comfort her, and grieve with her.

The long car ride home the next day with my siblings, each of us taking turns picking out old songs to play and sing along to. Of being so glad, so glad, so glad I could scatter into a million pieces just to be there with them in that moment, despite the grief and loss and unknowns all stirred up with faith.


It is the mariachi band I think of now. Which of my aunts called around to book them? Was it easy to hire them for a Monday afternoon, or difficult because it was last minute? Had they ever done a funeral before? I think I'll remember them playing "Amazing Grace" for as long as I live. Just the familiar melody, and the sight if not the sound of the trumpet and of the deep-bellied guitar, the band of four in their traditional silver-buttoned black pants and white shirts playing away as my brother rolled the casket down the isle in those borrowed white gloves.