Wrapped In Pentecost
Stories
Shining Moments
Visions Of The Holy In Ordinary Lives
Kate Jones
When my grandmother, Virginia, died I wore a red dress to the funeral. It is not my habit to wear red dresses to funerals, but this dress is special. Grandmother Virginia and I bought it two years ago when I was visiting her in Tulsa, Oklahoma. We felt very naughty out shopping for the dress. My Auntie Dumpling left strict instructions: "Don't baby your grandmother." I didn't. It wasn't babyish to me to take her to the mall -- a place she hadn't been in years. Auntie Dumpling didn't think my grandmother was up to such adventures. But, Auntie Dumpling was out of town! I tried on every red dress in the mall. Miss Virginia told me the story of how she eloped in a red dress while we rested on the brocade loveseat at a high-end department store. We watched mothers of brides in dress-buying rituals try on all manner of pastel dresses and suits while very young looking women scowled at their mothers' selections. We found the perfect dress, on the clearance rack: a tailored wrap around in United Methodist flame red, with a black and white polka-dotted lining.
I packed that red dress for a visit with Grandmother Virginia last March. I put it on for church and when she saw what I was wearing, she went back to the bedroom and put on her red dress. My ever perfectly coiffed, impeccably dressed grandmother insisted that I put on red lipstick -- a very different look from my usually naked face -- and we were off to stir up some trouble at the retirement center Sunday worship. We sang at the top of our voices in our outrageous red dresses. Early the next afternoon, I held Grandmother in my arms for the last time and said good-bye.
When I saw my dad's number on the caller ID at 7 a.m. on Monday morning, I knew. The lovely Miss Virginia, as her aids called her, had been called home. Again, I packed the red dress. I looked through the black things hanging in my closet, clerical collars, clergy suits, and my basic black dress. "No," I thought, "This is my grandmother's funeral. My red dress would somehow fit into her 'all things decently and in order' Presbyterian rubric." Since she had been a prominent member of the largest Presbyterian church in Tulsa for more than fifty years, I was certain that her pastor would officiate. At most, I would read the passage from Ecclesiastes about how there is a season for everything, or maybe tell a story about Miss Virginia. "Yes," I thought. "I'll wear red."
We arrived in Tulsa late on Wednesday afternoon. Wednesday evening, Uncle Danny, Aunt Cocoa, Auntie Dumpling, assorted cousins, and my three children and I were having supper in the non-descript hotel restaurant. Auntie Dumpling said she had talked to grandma's pastor. She told him that our full-service funeral family of storytellers, musicians, clergy, and other bards would plan the service. All he needed to do, she said, was the homily.
We sat at a large corner table, waiting for the patriarch, Miss Virginia's first born, my father, the Reverend Dr. Bob, with his large frame, a mane of silver hair, and an imposing presence. We traded stories and laughed and cried as families do when they prepare to bury their dead. The patriarch finally appeared, almost as a ghost, hunched over a cane, praying, "O, Jesus, O-O-O, Jesus" with every step. It jolted my grieving heart. I couldn't tell if it was my heart or his body breaking as he sat down next to me. Dad was in a lot of pain. "Katie, you plan and lead the service," he said.
The cadence of my heart hit double time as I contemplated the reality. My father just asked me to plan his mother's funeral. Here I was in the Bible Belt. Most of the worshipers would undoubtedly be high church, elderly Presbyterian ladies. I had no Book of Common Prayer, no robe, no clerical collar, no cross, and no stole. I had the small Bible I carry in my purse, my scrappy, Yankee, Methodist style, and a wrap around red dress, which would require a safety pin under the lapel if it were to be worn with modesty. Whether or not to select blood hymns was the least of my worries.
Uncle Danny picked up the tab and we dispersed. I retired to my room to make the collegial call to Miss Virginia's pastor. I got into one of those mazes of telephonic technology. After a series of numerical choices, I finally left a message for Dr. Johnson. I sketched out a service as best I could and then looked for sleep in the room I was sharing with my three children.
Funeral day came with the oppressive heat expected of any summer morning in Oklahoma. I once again tested my skills in the telephonic maze of the Presbyterian church. This time with more success. Dr. Johnson's assistant informed me that the good doctor could not participate in the funeral, as his father had died during the night and he needed to be on an airplane for Nashville.
I hung up the phone and sat for a moment in the hotel version of silence. There was a knock on my door. I opened the door to find my brother Rick, holding two packages. "Andrea made these for you. I was going to wait until your birthday, but she said to bring them now." I invited Rick in. I tore through the first package which contained a large, soft blue-green prayer shawl. As I opened the shawl, out fell a slip of white paper. Its words were immediately familiar.
O Lord, you have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down and when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from far away. You search out my path and my lying down, and are acquainted with all my ways. Even before a word is on my tongue, O Lord, you know it completely. You hem me in, behind and before and lay your hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is so high that I cannot attain it. Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence? If I ascend to heaven, you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there. If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me and your right hand shall hold me fast. If I say, "Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light around me become night," even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as the day, for darkness is as light to you. For it was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; that I know very well. My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth. Your eyes beheld my unformed substance. In your book were written all the days that were formed for me, when none of them as yet existed. How weighty to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them! I try to count them -- they are more than the sand; I come to the end -- I am still with you. O that you would kill the wicked, O God, and that the bloodthirsty would depart from me -- those who speak of you maliciously, and lift themselves up against you for evil! Do I not hate those who hate you, O Lord? And do I not loathe those who rise up against you? I hate them with perfect hatred; I count them my enemies. Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my thoughts. See if there is any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.
-- Psalm 139
I wrapped myself in God's knitted womb and sat down on the edge of the bed holding those sacred words of God's profound and pursuing love. Rick handed me another package. "Andrea just took up weaving," he explained. "She made this for you, too. Isn't it perfect?" The stole was purple on one side -- the color of penitence, and preparation -- the color of Advent and Lent. On the reverse, it was white, the color of death and resurrection. "Rick, it is perfect. I can't think of a more perfect gift. Tell Andrea I love it. Thank you."
Rick excused himself to get ready for the funeral. I laid the prayer shawl and the stole on the bed. I wrapped myself in the red dress, put on some red lipstick, picked up the stole and my Bible, and went to gather the children.
Like most families, we entered the service after the other mourners had been seated. "Old Rugged Cross" played on the old, bad, synthesized funeral home organ. Unlike most families, my dad and I took the officiants' seats in the front of the room.
Wrapped in my red dress, and the stole, white toward the congregation and purple toward my heart, I got up and proclaimed: "Jesus said, 'I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, yet shall they live....' "
As the witnessing continued, my dad leaned forward with characteristic impatience and uncharacteristic anxiety. This time, I laid my hand on top of his very large, square, spotted hand. He turned his hand over and we sat together, palm to palm, wrapped in Pentecost.
When my grandmother, Virginia, died I wore a red dress to the funeral. It is not my habit to wear red dresses to funerals, but this dress is special. Grandmother Virginia and I bought it two years ago when I was visiting her in Tulsa, Oklahoma. We felt very naughty out shopping for the dress. My Auntie Dumpling left strict instructions: "Don't baby your grandmother." I didn't. It wasn't babyish to me to take her to the mall -- a place she hadn't been in years. Auntie Dumpling didn't think my grandmother was up to such adventures. But, Auntie Dumpling was out of town! I tried on every red dress in the mall. Miss Virginia told me the story of how she eloped in a red dress while we rested on the brocade loveseat at a high-end department store. We watched mothers of brides in dress-buying rituals try on all manner of pastel dresses and suits while very young looking women scowled at their mothers' selections. We found the perfect dress, on the clearance rack: a tailored wrap around in United Methodist flame red, with a black and white polka-dotted lining.
I packed that red dress for a visit with Grandmother Virginia last March. I put it on for church and when she saw what I was wearing, she went back to the bedroom and put on her red dress. My ever perfectly coiffed, impeccably dressed grandmother insisted that I put on red lipstick -- a very different look from my usually naked face -- and we were off to stir up some trouble at the retirement center Sunday worship. We sang at the top of our voices in our outrageous red dresses. Early the next afternoon, I held Grandmother in my arms for the last time and said good-bye.
When I saw my dad's number on the caller ID at 7 a.m. on Monday morning, I knew. The lovely Miss Virginia, as her aids called her, had been called home. Again, I packed the red dress. I looked through the black things hanging in my closet, clerical collars, clergy suits, and my basic black dress. "No," I thought, "This is my grandmother's funeral. My red dress would somehow fit into her 'all things decently and in order' Presbyterian rubric." Since she had been a prominent member of the largest Presbyterian church in Tulsa for more than fifty years, I was certain that her pastor would officiate. At most, I would read the passage from Ecclesiastes about how there is a season for everything, or maybe tell a story about Miss Virginia. "Yes," I thought. "I'll wear red."
We arrived in Tulsa late on Wednesday afternoon. Wednesday evening, Uncle Danny, Aunt Cocoa, Auntie Dumpling, assorted cousins, and my three children and I were having supper in the non-descript hotel restaurant. Auntie Dumpling said she had talked to grandma's pastor. She told him that our full-service funeral family of storytellers, musicians, clergy, and other bards would plan the service. All he needed to do, she said, was the homily.
We sat at a large corner table, waiting for the patriarch, Miss Virginia's first born, my father, the Reverend Dr. Bob, with his large frame, a mane of silver hair, and an imposing presence. We traded stories and laughed and cried as families do when they prepare to bury their dead. The patriarch finally appeared, almost as a ghost, hunched over a cane, praying, "O, Jesus, O-O-O, Jesus" with every step. It jolted my grieving heart. I couldn't tell if it was my heart or his body breaking as he sat down next to me. Dad was in a lot of pain. "Katie, you plan and lead the service," he said.
The cadence of my heart hit double time as I contemplated the reality. My father just asked me to plan his mother's funeral. Here I was in the Bible Belt. Most of the worshipers would undoubtedly be high church, elderly Presbyterian ladies. I had no Book of Common Prayer, no robe, no clerical collar, no cross, and no stole. I had the small Bible I carry in my purse, my scrappy, Yankee, Methodist style, and a wrap around red dress, which would require a safety pin under the lapel if it were to be worn with modesty. Whether or not to select blood hymns was the least of my worries.
Uncle Danny picked up the tab and we dispersed. I retired to my room to make the collegial call to Miss Virginia's pastor. I got into one of those mazes of telephonic technology. After a series of numerical choices, I finally left a message for Dr. Johnson. I sketched out a service as best I could and then looked for sleep in the room I was sharing with my three children.
Funeral day came with the oppressive heat expected of any summer morning in Oklahoma. I once again tested my skills in the telephonic maze of the Presbyterian church. This time with more success. Dr. Johnson's assistant informed me that the good doctor could not participate in the funeral, as his father had died during the night and he needed to be on an airplane for Nashville.
I hung up the phone and sat for a moment in the hotel version of silence. There was a knock on my door. I opened the door to find my brother Rick, holding two packages. "Andrea made these for you. I was going to wait until your birthday, but she said to bring them now." I invited Rick in. I tore through the first package which contained a large, soft blue-green prayer shawl. As I opened the shawl, out fell a slip of white paper. Its words were immediately familiar.
O Lord, you have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down and when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from far away. You search out my path and my lying down, and are acquainted with all my ways. Even before a word is on my tongue, O Lord, you know it completely. You hem me in, behind and before and lay your hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is so high that I cannot attain it. Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence? If I ascend to heaven, you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there. If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me and your right hand shall hold me fast. If I say, "Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light around me become night," even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as the day, for darkness is as light to you. For it was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; that I know very well. My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth. Your eyes beheld my unformed substance. In your book were written all the days that were formed for me, when none of them as yet existed. How weighty to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them! I try to count them -- they are more than the sand; I come to the end -- I am still with you. O that you would kill the wicked, O God, and that the bloodthirsty would depart from me -- those who speak of you maliciously, and lift themselves up against you for evil! Do I not hate those who hate you, O Lord? And do I not loathe those who rise up against you? I hate them with perfect hatred; I count them my enemies. Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my thoughts. See if there is any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.
-- Psalm 139
I wrapped myself in God's knitted womb and sat down on the edge of the bed holding those sacred words of God's profound and pursuing love. Rick handed me another package. "Andrea just took up weaving," he explained. "She made this for you, too. Isn't it perfect?" The stole was purple on one side -- the color of penitence, and preparation -- the color of Advent and Lent. On the reverse, it was white, the color of death and resurrection. "Rick, it is perfect. I can't think of a more perfect gift. Tell Andrea I love it. Thank you."
Rick excused himself to get ready for the funeral. I laid the prayer shawl and the stole on the bed. I wrapped myself in the red dress, put on some red lipstick, picked up the stole and my Bible, and went to gather the children.
Like most families, we entered the service after the other mourners had been seated. "Old Rugged Cross" played on the old, bad, synthesized funeral home organ. Unlike most families, my dad and I took the officiants' seats in the front of the room.
Wrapped in my red dress, and the stole, white toward the congregation and purple toward my heart, I got up and proclaimed: "Jesus said, 'I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, yet shall they live....' "
As the witnessing continued, my dad leaned forward with characteristic impatience and uncharacteristic anxiety. This time, I laid my hand on top of his very large, square, spotted hand. He turned his hand over and we sat together, palm to palm, wrapped in Pentecost.
