My funeral-going career started late in my life. In fact, I think the first funeral I remember attending, was my paternal grandmother’s funeral when I was 16. Before that, I didn’t really give them much thought.  As kids, my sister and I were left at home whenever the grown folks had a funeral scheduled. To hear the mater familias tell it, funerals were no places for children. I didn’t understand why. We could handle funerals. We knew that people were born, and people passed on. In any case, I was grateful to be left to my devices to watch a VHS of McGyver with Big Sis, or run to the tuckshop with the odd 10 cents we could scrounge up.

But that was when funerals were exclusively for people who had walked their decades on the earth. One was born, one grew old, one passed away. Then, friends of my parents (then in their thirties/forties) would be laid to rest. Young people, usually taken by road traffic accidents. That messed with my convictions of the type of person we were meant to bury. I knew in a casual, semi-aware way, that anyone living could die. But I didn’t know, you know? I believed that fallacy of youth: that we would all have fabulous, eternally youthful lives.

In university, things took a darker turn. Death was creeping closer to us, the young, immortal set. Against the natural order of things, fellow university students were being laid to rest. The Grim Reaper was no longer an abstract, but dwelt among us.

And so, with the passage of time, we become more familiar with death’s ways. We never know who is next, but we know, with fearsome certainty, that we will face it. And we will lose loved ones: grandparents, parents, uncles, aunts, friends, friends’ parents, co-workers. And patients. Those in the medical profession dread the deaths of patients, and do everything possible to halt its merciless campaign. Death is no discriminator.

Funerals are important, then, in that they allow the living an opportunity to reflect. They punctuate the life of the departed; that particular human can do no more. How shall they be remembered? How shall we be remembered?

How then shall we live?

The inevitability of death leads to some interesting behaviour in those of us who have yet to drink of its chalice. Our thoughts turn to notions such as Memorials! Remembrance! Legacy! A prime example of this type of hubris was ol’ Cecil.

Paradoxically, Cecil John Rhodes did manage to make sure his name was remembered by a large chunk of South Africa, long long looong after his death. Mostly for his arrogance in planning wholesale African domination, and the damage he caused in “reaching for his dreams”. Just think of Rhodes University. Rhodes Memorial. The Mandela Rhodes Fellowship (I think the Mandela bit was added on to obfuscate the Rhodes portion). Rhodesia and Northern Rhodesia (Zimbabwe and Zambia to you and I). If you wish to read more, I recommend Alexander Parker’s “50 People Who Stuffed Up South Africa”.

While most of us will never reach that level of ambition (because international codes of civil conduct will not allow us to), we reach for immortality in other ways.

One thing that we ALL do when someone passes, is ask: “How did they die?” In that question is the kernel of the hope that we will avoid a similar fate. Breaking news: we won’t. Some deny the turning of the odometer (ageing), and reach for plastic surgery. Others wish for sons to carry on their name. Yet others reach for celebrity, to be famous in life, and in death. In academia, there is an age-old adage: “Publish or perish”. In other words, work furiously in order to leave behind your name, printed in black and white, for all generations to see. This scrambling for legacy tends to bring out the worst in people. Families are forsaken and marriages disintegrate on the altar of career. It is my observation that academic hallways are sometimes more vicious than a fight-to-the-death, no-holds-barred fight cage. We live in anxiety, and get no rest for our souls, because we must build something, anything that will testify that we were here.

Warning: Spoilers ahead.

Buildings can be destroyed. Countries are renamed. The world will not remember most of us. “The life of mortals is like grass, they flourish like a flower of the field; the wind blows over it and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more.”  Ps 103:15-16, NIV

A depressing thought. That is, if that was where the story ended. Whilst the world will probably forget us, our Father in heaven will not.

In the book of Isaiah, a conversation between the God of Israel, and Israel is recorded. God says to His people, through Isaiah, “Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; your walls are ever before me.” Isaiah 49:15-16

It was a word given specifically to the Israelites, but reveals something precious about God’s character: He remembers His people. And if we are in Christ, we are His people. Think about that for a minute. The testament of the lives we lead is written on the Almighty God’s hand, an indestructibly, incorruptibly, safe place for our memorials.

That knowledge makes a world of difference, if we would only believe it. We can do what we need to do in this world, without being overly concerned if we will be remembered. We know we will.

Be at peace, fam.

Copyright Gugu Mhlanga 2018. All rights reserved.