Inspiring Women SUMMER 2020

39
Earlier today, I attended my
mother-in-law’s funeral. Right
now, I’m sitting in a Louisville
airport lounge waiting to board
my Delta flight to Atlanta,
connecting to Charleston. Bloody
Mary or ginger-ale? I’ve got a
concert to play in Charleston in a
few days, and jet lag has slapped
me silly.
Yesterday’s fifteen-hour flight
odyssey from Germany to
Kentucky culminated in an
overnight stay at a Louisville hotel
overlooking the viscous water
flooding the banks of the Ohio
River and a perilous Uber ride with Chuck the driver to the Southern Baptist church where my
mother-in-law’s service took place. Visitation, open casket, a spray of pink flowers to match her
suit jacket—a classic Baptist funeral befitting a preacher’s wife, with all the bells and whistles.
Due to my husband’s recent illness and inability to handle a transatlantic flight at this point in his
recovery, I volunteered to show up at the church as the Designated Mourner on his behalf. I’ve
read about Chinese funeral rituals where strangers are hired to sit in the second pew and sob
loudly, but that wasn’t my gig today. I played the Pachelbel Canon in D, a piece I’ve performed
in just about every venue imaginable. My mother-in-law once referred to the Pachelbel Canon
as the Taco Bell Canon. I was honored to play it one more time, for her.
She slipped away the way most of us would prefer to exit this world—in her sleep. At the funeral,
we sang her favorite hymns, listened to glossy stories about her century of exemplary life choices,
and recited some prayers, the faded words of which seemed both appropriate and sad.
Note: All songs in the Baptist hymnal are written in keys for male singers.
The preacher invited each of us to stand and say a few words, so I did, because, as Designated
Mourner, I thought my husband would want me to
do so. I thanked her for raising a son who had
become a loving husband, engaged father, a
man who knows how to respect women. His
mother might have happily played the part of the
southern belle, but her accidental feminist edge
occasionally revealed itself.
She first met Julia, our daughter, when Julia was
thirteen months old. We had taken the long flight
from Germany to Kentucky to present our precious
child to her grandmother. I was distracted when
we got out of the car because our four-year old
son, cranky and hungry after the long trip, had just called his baby sister an asshole. He couldn’t
pronounce it properly and said “sasshole,” but it was clear enough what he meant. Not exactly
a good way to make a positive impression on one’s prim and proper Baptist grandmother.
“Why,” my mom-in-law said, in her charming Louisville accent, ignoring the sasshole comment
and its perpetrator. “Julia looks just like me.”
“Oh, yes, I guess she does,” I replied. “Bless your heart.”