Burial Ground
by Elizabeth Johnstone
Philip Freneau, a poet during the American Revolution, wrote a poem called "The Indian Burying Ground." In the first verse, he notes the traditional idea of a soul's eternal rest. When we die, we're essentially finished with this earth and all things in it; Shakespeare's mortal coil is rendered obsolete. We walk in the clouds, or in heaven, and we're free of obligation, free of missions. After death, are we aware of the world? It's comforting to think so, but seems to present a bit of a conundrum. What good is a place like heaven if you're supposed to spend all your time worrying from afar about the people you left behind?
Freneau’s second verse:
Not so the ancients of these lands--
The Indian, when from life released,
Again is seated with his friends,
And shares again the joyous feast.>
I have a good memory for impractical things, like Lord of the Rings trivia and very specific references to LOST episodes. I cannot remember my bank account number to save my life. Fragments from books (like the bit from A Color Purple that goes something like, "you ever notice that trees do everything to get attention we do, except walk?") stick with me for years, and I know that you need copper to make green fireworks and magnesium to make white. Last week, an old friend of mine passed away. I attended his memorial service, which was held at the church that he and I had been members of since we were children. We went to high school together. We were not extraordinarily close, but I knew him for a long time and I am sure that we always smiled when we saw each other. But I can barely recall it; I have few specific or special memories. I cannot picture his face clearly.
The memorial service consisted of a rather short eulogy and a long message of hope. One of the pastors made a plug for the following Sunday. My brother, a seminary student, says that in his training they tell pastors to refer as little as possible to the deceased and more to the salvation of Jesus. I found that very interesting. Life moves on, yes? A group of kids from our high school class organized a late lunch at Chili's after the reception. I didn't attend.
As a Western culture, we observe rather traditional (and simple) funeral rites. A service, a burial, nice clothes. Perhaps cremation. There is grief, and shock, and the oft-spoken phrase: "I know he's in a better place now." There is talk of that person saving a spot for all of us in heaven.
Freneau's poem, one of the first said to idealize the Native American, declares that the spirits of the dead walk among us, haunting ancient burial grounds. Freneau's tone is perhaps a little bewildered- these are souls that know no rest. How can they be content to roam? He seems to realize, however, that it is the "finer essences" of life that remain after any death.
The finer essences. The best part (if funerals can have one) about my friend's service was the laughter. It spoke to his life- he was gentle prankster, a guy who loved to have a good time, always ready with a quick smile. He would have liked more laughter. Matilde, a character in Sarah Ruhl's The Clean House, says near the end of the play that she "think[s] maybe heaven is a sea of untranslatable jokes. Only everyone is laughing." I hope so. Because I do have one clear memory of my friend- we were on a trip to California, two years ago. There was my too-big suitcase, his determination to fit it in the van, having it falling out and dropping it repeatedly. Disaster ensued. Laughter, too.
