Notes of a funeral guest
I’ve been once told that one telltale sign of growing older is when you start attending more funerals than weddings. This is probably why my juvenile self would’ve never predicted that in my early 20s, I would already attend more funerals than I could count.
I belong to a gospel choir that recurrently gets assigned to sing at funerals. This solemn singing duty is intended to comfort the deceased’s grieving loved ones, an act of condolence and remembrance to ease the bereaved. It is inevitable though that through the years, as this duty slowly becomes a quotidian task, the technicalities of singing overshadow the need to condition the spirit. When the schedules are hectic (during which we would need to attend multiple funerals in a single night), or when one suffers a physical inconvenience such as a sore throat or a voice strain, channeling the comforting message of music can be quite difficult.
As the group steps unhurriedly in front of the audience, standing in a neat line just a few inches from where the casket is placed, one can’t help but attempt to conduct a last-minute mental session of recalling lyrics, notes, and dynamics. Yet whenever we see the crowd—a group of spectators whose expressions display an unnerving mix of grief, sympathy, anticipation, and sometimes, even indifference—we remember the purpose that planted our feet in the group. It is hard not to feel grief in a room of mourning individuals. We were routinely told that one’s tone could be perfect, the timing impeccable, and the lyrics memorized to the core, but without the sacred meditation of the song, without the spirit aligning with the sentiments of the music, the performance is nothing but a hollow show.
In the six years I’ve been in the music ministry, I’ve seen the face of grief take many forms. Too often, it does not come in the form of tears. In most duties I’ve been to, jumping from home funerals to various branches of funeral establishments in Quezon City, it comes as a surprise how loved ones experiencing grief manage to carry out the practical matters of a wake—the funeral planning, the administrative tasks, and the need to welcome and assist guests, from the closest relatives to the most unfamiliar of strangers, us included.
In these events, we would be ushered to our seats by amiable relatives and provided food usually resembling a feast instead of just the quintessential coffee and peanuts. The relatives would be grateful for our presence, handing us additional snacks and juice as we head out (and if ghosts do follow mourners who bring takeout food home, as the local superstition says, I’m in dire straits). When the event is over, some would even engage in sentimental conversations about their favorite memories of the beloved, and these recollections would either be met with shared laughter or silent agreement. In most of these situations, they would communicate with a certain poise, and I could only surmise how heavily they had already cried before the ceremony, seeing the swollen and baggy eyes from the dismal mixture of lamentation and sleeplessness.
Hence I view this duty, and I highly suspect that each person in our chorale group does as well based on intimate conversations and group huddles, as its own kind of privilege—to be in a position to provide solace to people still fresh in their grieving process. As the music starts, or in the case of acapella performances, as the conductor raises their hand in commencement, we can see the audience’s expressions gradually soften and shift from anticipation to ease.
This is not to say that the relatives of the deceased always succeed in holding back their tears. Most of the crying, from muted sobs to resonant wails, happens amid choir performances when the songs have reached their peak. As we’re dutybound to provide comfort, the last thing we would want to do is cry, but it is hard to hold back tears at the height of an emotional moment, especially when we’re not personally acquainted with the departed, let alone their family. During these times, we can’t help but think about ourselves, too, and I hope that it is empathy, not selfishness, that whenever we attend these funerals, we think of our loved ones and the stinging brevity of time. Perhaps in the many times we’ve sung songs of comfort, we’re also comforting ourselves for what’s to come in due time.
In a way, a funeral is a celebration of life, too. In it, we reminisce on the beloved’s most successful joke, the time they couldn’t hold their laughter at a serious event, or how they had an odd tendency to wear mismatched socks. These little details live with us and we cannot banish the unshakeable feeling that they never left until we yearn to see them and they aren’t there. Someone once told me that oftentimes, mourning concerns the people who remain more than the ones who left—how we cannot live without them, how hard life will be now that they’re gone. Surely, every time a beloved leaves, we feel that they have been robbed of time. Yet we cannot speak for the dead.
It’s the curse of life to endure after a person we’ve sworn we couldn’t live without has passed, but it is also the course of life. For whatever reason, intended by a higher power or otherwise, our lives are fated to end somewhere along the thread. A funeral is a reminder of death as much as it is a reminder of life, and it isn’t a form of disrespect to the dead to go on living.
Micah Granada, 23, is a creative writing graduate from the University of the Philippines Diliman.
