By JoEllen Collins
One of the chores elderly people need to accomplish is the notifying of family, friends or caretakers about what one would prefer to happen during rituals noting one’s passing from this life. I have attended too many funerals and celebration-of-life ceremonies in the past few months to ignore this responsibility of my age.
I am not about to bore you with the details of my thoughts about what I hope will occur a long time from now, but one thing recently came to mind that has been a source of some good humor and even a faith in the positive.
As I have stated before in columns, my first few years were spent in the embrace of many Salvation Army (SA) members in my parents’ families. As you may know, this organization is not merely a place to recycle and buy used items or meant only to service downtrodden people of the “skid rows” of the world, but is a traditional religious entity founded by Evangeline Booth in England in the late 19th century. Its “corps” is based on promotions like those in the military, composed of members who commit their lives to an “army” of the faithful who live modestly and serve to help others.
My parents, sister and many other family members are buried in Colma, California, in a Salvation Army section. When my very traditional Aunt Linnea died, she chose to be cremated rather than buried next to her husband (both Salvation Army career officers) because she wanted the money she saved to be given to family who traveled long distances to attend the services. For a woman born in 1910, when cremations were rare, that was a remarkably generous last gift.
Since I am here in Northern California (not so far from their cemetery) for a while, I have thought often about those I knew and loved who celebrated that faith. I have seldom known such kind, open and selfless people and, although my family eventually joined another Protestant denomination, we all were proud to have been associated with these folks.
One of the rituals that was remarkably sweet in my childhood was the way funerals were conducted, with lots of good memories recalled, plenty of music (the SA is where Meredith Wilson learned to play in bands like the one in “The Music Man”) and a positive attitude about life and the hereafter.
Many eulogies remarked on how the deceased had been “promoted to glory,” a concept peculiar to the military designations of SA officers. It seems a joyful way to imagine loved ones.
I am now thinking that since I have spent most of my life as a dreaded “grammar sergeant,” perhaps some will acknowledge my work in teaching English language and literature by mentioning that I also will have been “promoted to glory.” Traditional SA congregations echo this statement with “Amens” and hugs and smiles in celebration of a life well lived and honored.
One could do worse than being sent off with such joy on the journey we all must take.