No, no, no life?
Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,
And thou no breath at all? Thou’lt come no more,
Never, never, never, never, never.

—King Lear in William Shakespeare’s, The Tragedy of King Lear, Act V, Scene iii

This season of grief has brought some of the strangest emotions and ideas I’ve ever felt or thought. Some have been quite shocking.

I quote the bit from King Lear above because I can relate to it so profoundly. I knew that bargaining was one of the five stages of grief, but when I had seen others bargain, it was usually along the lines of them saying they should have died instead. I had no such thought. Instead, I found myself, like Lear, asking, “Why does that thing or that person get to live when my dad had to die?” I would look at people far older than my father or who didn’t take care of themselves and wonder, “Why not them instead?” I said to God more than once, “Why not take someone who has had a full life? Dad wasn’t through yet.” This bargaining with other peoples’ lives surprised me and I must admit feeling some guilt for thinking this way.

Now when Job’s three friends heard of all these troubles that had come upon him, each of them set out from his home—Eliphaz the Temanite, Bildad the Shuhite, and Zophar the Naamathite. They met together to go and console and comfort him…. They sat with him on the ground seven days and seven nights, and no one spoke a word to him, for they saw that his suffering was very great.

—Job 2.11, 13

On Sunday night some friends from church organized a wake keeping for my dad. People came to our house, brought food, socialized (or, fellowshipped since this was a church thing), and listened as Carey and I shared about my dad. Then they prayed for us and we sang “Amazing Grace,” a song Dad loved. My friend explained to me that a wake keeping is more of a Catholic tradition usually done overnight with the body of the deceased present. Ours was much shorter and without Dad’s physical presence, but still wonderfully meaningful. Carey and I still cannot communicate how loved we felt. I haven’t experienced in Southern California the immediacy of our loss so clearly as on Sunday night. These are friends who didn’t know my father, but still honored and loved him by serving us. It is a gift to have friends who will sit with you in your grief. Thank you.

“How can a train be lost? It’s on rails.”

—Jack, The Darjeeling Limited

Carey and I recently saw Wes Anderson’s latest work of brilliance, The Darjeeling Limited (I have a giant soft spot for Anderson’s films). The movie is about three estranged brothers going on a spiritual quest in India a year after their father’s death. I could say much more about the film’s merits, but for now I am thankful for its wonderful timeliness in coming into my life. This is a film I could feel writing itself onto my soul and bones and I could hear God speaking to me in my grief.

In my previous reflection on my dad I mentioned that I wished my culture had a set and more communal mode of grieving. The Darjeeling Limited highlighted that gap in my culture. In the film, the three brothers encounter another death in India and stay within the community through the initial mourning and funeral processes. We see women mourning together. We see the family prepare the body of the deceased for the funeral. The deceased’s family actively participates in the funeral and lights the pyre. The community surrounds the family and gives them space. All this in a culture where Hinduism is the dominant religion—a religion whose goal it is to leave the material world behind. It is a remarkable and moving sequence of filmmaking.

Dad died at 3:16am on September 12. Carey and I raced up to Clovis a few hours later as we were in no condition to drive immediately after the death. There was some doubt as to whether we would be able to see Dad prior to cremation—in a matter of hours, a Byzantine bureaucracy grew, involving the hospital, the county coroner’s office, and the burial society my parents had hired. I frantically called these agencies trying to arrange a viewing for Carey and I. The person I spoke with at the hospital told me that my father was still at the hospital, but I couldn’t see him. “You wouldn’t want to see him like this,” the woman said. That infuriated me. How dare she tell me what I wanted at that moment. I wanted to see my father, period. No matter what state he was in. He had endured several procedures, so I understood that he would have looked bizarre from all the needle pokes and tubes placed in him, but I would have wanted to see him had he been maimed, because having that moment of physical connection would have been better than the void. We were finally able to see Dad days later by setting up a viewing with the burial society for two hundred bucks. They wheeled him out with a sheet tucked underneath his chin. After a few meaningful minutes with him, we left, and the funeral home workers wheeled him back out for further storage and eventual cremation. All this in a culture where Christianity—with its robust views of God calling the human (body and all) “very good” and the bodily resurrection—is supposed to be the dominant religion.

What has happened? Why isn’t the family more involved in the touch and presence of our loved ones’ bodies? Why were we not present at the cremation, which instead of being done in the messy presence of the community, is shopped out to some sanitized business who takes care of that detail for the bereaved? I fear it is because, as Harold Bloom has observed, Gnosticism, with its pseudo-Christianity and hatred of the body and all things material, is the “real” religion of the United States. We deny and fear death in this culture. We work hard to avoid it, we separate ourselves from getting our hands dirty in death and suffering so that we feel we must avoid any reminder. We don’t know how to die well because we don’t want to even acknowledge death’s existence.

Since we don’t know how to die well, those of us who remain after a death, don’t know how to mourn or be with people mourning—of course, Job’s friends didn’t know how to be with him either. If someone violently wails, some may say that he isn’t handling the death well. On the other hand, if someone shows little to no emotion, she is being strong. Mine is a culture that has retarded itself when it comes to mourning. Sure, we have funerals or memorial services, wakes and viewings, and the wonderful generosity of cooked meals and flowers. But we have undercut our ability to truly deal with death or mourning. The commodification of death and mourning seems to be a culprit, though I don’t intend to condemn funeral homes, undertakers, or greeting cards, even if I am concerned about some of the messages and assumptions conveyed.

Anderson’s film reminds us that mourning cannot be prescribed. Psychologists have accurately outlined the five stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance), but the order and duration in which the mourner experiences them can seem random at best. When Dad died, I think I felt all five stages within a span of minutes. Some days and weeks now are spent in one of the stages. The characters of The Darjeeling Limited realize that following an itinerary of grief and spiritual awakening is a quixotic venture. They also learn that the frameworks other cultures set up for grief act as helpful guides through mourning. A dear friend of ours gave us the first in a series of booklets, Journeying through Grief written by Kenneth C. Haugk and published by Stephen Ministries. A Time to Grieve has been helpful for Carey and I in its short messages to the reader. It doesn’t tell you what to feel, but validates your emotions and experiences. It gives you space and helps you breathe. It doesn’t say any type of mourning is good or bad; it simply states that mourning is normal, natural, and necessary. I’m thankful for a resource like this, but am saddened that in my culture, the emotions of grief have to be affirmed. It is strange to think that someone needs to stand against the tide and say that grief is natural.

Dad died a month ago today. Looking back on the last few weeks, I see that the majority of my thoughts on his death have been between the cold admission and reminder of, “Dad’s dead,” to the confusion and terror of, “How could Dad be dead?”

Being in Southern California, where there isn’t a lot to immediately remind me of Dad, I find that I have to remind myself of his death every so often. I’ve tried to do things that help me recollect like putting a pictures of him up in places like our family room or as the desktop photos on my computers at home and at work. And yet I still find myself picking up the phone to call him. I still walk around a corner and the fact that Dad is dead smacks me in the face.

For the first few days after Dad died, I held a lot of disbelief. I kept asking over and over again, “How could Dad be dead?” That disbelief subsided into painful, but quiet acceptance. Lately, however, I have wondered again how is it that Dad is dead? It makes no logical sense—I cannot see a reason. It is in these times that Ecclesiastes makes the most sense, or rather, best represents my confusion.

Again I saw that under the sun the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to the wise, nor riches to the intelligent, nor favor to the skillful; but time and chance happen to them all. Ecclesiastes 9.11 (NRSV)

This observation comes as no surprise, but I find that my culture doesn’t have much of a sense of how to mourn. Immediately after Dad’s death, I wished that we were from a culture that has set, formal, communal ways to grieve. I know within some cultures, people cover the mirrors in their houses for a season. While grief cannot be prescribed, it would be helpful to have some guides in the process. I’ll offer more thoughts on the grief process later.

People ask a lot about how I’m doing. I reflected on this question a couple of years ago when my niece, Emily, died in utero. Carey told me that when her Latina patients are asked how they are doing, many answer, “I’m here.” That answer makes a lot of sense to me right now. I cannot make a qualitative assessment, but I can say that I am present, I am feeling whatever it is I’m feeling (sadness, anger, numbness, etc.), and I will continue to be present. It’s been a hard season for my family. I say often that it feels like learning to walk again. We’re trying to figure out our relationships without Dad here.

I went to North Carolina with my mom, brother, and nephew for a second memorial service for Dad. He grew up in Lenoir, a small town at the base of the eastern slope of the Appalachian Mountains. The rest of the family there wanted to have a memorial service of their own. It was a good time to be with my nuclear and extended families, but I’m bushed. We flew out Friday and returned today. It was the first time I visited North Carolina without my dad. I missed his presence and his voice. There were so many conversations where I found myself turning and expecting to hear Dad chime in with his opinion. The silence hurt.

“I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”

—T. S. Eliot, “The Waste Land”

I just spoke with my mom who returned from picking up Dad’s remains. He was cremated and now we must decide what to do with the ashes. Mom expressed feeling comforted in being physically close to Dad again. All I can think about is how what is left of Dad’s physical body can fit in a medium-sized jar, or urn. Though I want to be cremated, it freaks me out right now to think that Mom or any of us can carry Dad around in one arm and place him on a table or a shelf. This all confronts me with the frightening weight of finality.

Below you’ll find the eulogy I gave at my father’s memorial service on Friday. I was pretty numb most of the morning, but fell apart once I sat down from speaking. I didn’t expect how hard or draining it would be and I am absolutely glad I did it.

Eulogy for Clay Watson, Given September 21, 2007

I want to thank everyone for attending this memorial service for my dad. The outpouring of love, condolences, and empathy from all of you has humbled my family greatly. Your presence here today and your presence in the form of prayers, phone calls, flowers, cards, meals, and visitations doesn’t make the pain of losing Dad any less, but it does remind my family of how much Dad affected others and how much we are loved.

Losing Dad was a tragedy and I for one am still in shock. The grief my family and I feel is fresh and I ask that you please continue to pray for us as we mourn. One of the greatest shocks for me was that after Dad died, we immediately began to speak of him in the past tense. Just hours before he went to the hospital, my wife, Carey, and I were on a date and we talked about how Dad is a proud person. Twenty-four hours later we talked about how Dad would have found a certain joke funny. It is a terrifying thing to know that someone I love so dearly and who loved me so deeply is not moving into the future with my family. I mourn that Dad will never see his beloved grandson Joshua graduate from high school or that he will never meet any of my children in this life.

“The news that truly shocks is the empty, empty page / While the final rattle rocks its empty, empty cage / And I can’t handle this”

—Peter Gabriel, “I Grieve”

Dad’s memorial service is tomorrow morning. The eulogy is written and I’ll post it at some point after the service. Please pray that the service will help bring closure for all involved. Tomorrow is also my high school ten-year class reunion. Shrug.

“Always take a big bite / It’s such a gorgeous sight / To see you eat in the middle of the night”

—Robert Smith of The Cure, “Friday I’m in Love”

My mom took this photograph of Dad and their grandson Joshua a couple of years ago as they ate ice cream at a Cold Stone Creamery after seeing the effusive Christmas decorations at Candy Cane Lane. In my opinion, this photograph perfectly captures their relationship. Dad liked to present himself as stoic, but in Joshua’s presence, Dad’s silliness could not be contained. They loved to tease and play with each other. One of their favorite games was trying to eat each other’s food. (Notice the stains on Joshua’s shirt. Awesome.)

Today’s Fresno Bee contains the complete obituary for Dad:

Clayton Loris Watson
Clayton “Casey” Loris Watson died suddenly on the morning of Wednesday, September 12, 2007. He was born to parents, Evie and Jesse Watson on October 24, 1942, in Lenoir, North Carolina.

Clay grew up in Lenoir, graduated from Lenoir High School in 1960, and went on to North Carolina State University where he earned a B.S. in electrical engineering in 1965. He then moved to Long Beach, California, where he designed electrical systems for McDonnell Douglas Aircraft. In southern California, Clay met Pamela Roper, who became his best friend and soul mate. They married on May 9, 1971, making their home in Bellflower, California. Wanting to own their own business, Clay and Pam moved to Sanger, California, in 1975, and opened Coast to Coast Hardware (now Academy Hardware); he later opened Academy Laundromat in 2002. He was an active member of Sanger Rotary for 31 years, where he was a Paul Harris Fellow, and he was also co-founder and board member of Sanger Community Bank.

Clay always made family his most important priority. He loved camping and traveling with Pam and their two sons Joshua and Tyler. He was supportive of his sons’ endeavors, taking time away from the business to attend their events. In recent years, Clay and Pam greatly enjoyed vacationing in different locales around the world. He also loved throwing parties for their church and friends in their home. Clay was an avid reader with an insatiable thirst for knowledge. As an astute investor, others commonly sought him out for business and financial advice. Clay will be remembered for his generous heart. He was always willing to help others without any expectation of reciprocation. Clay found his greatest pleasure in loving and teasing his family and friends.

He was preceded in death by his parents, Evie and Jesse Watson; and his brother, Pete Watson.

Thank you for loving us so much as a wonderful husband, a great father, adoring Papa, and a good friend. We loved you well.

Clay is survived by Pamela, his wife of 36 years; his sons Joshua and his wife Natalie of Sanger, and Tyler and his wife Carey of San Gabriel, California; the joy of his life, his grandson Joshua, Jr.; his brother, Jake Watson and his wife Juanita of Lenoir, North Caroling; his sister, Barbara Madison and her husband Bill of Hudson, North Carolina; as well as many nieces and nephews.

A Memorial Service will be held at Bethel Community Church on the corner of Bethel Ave. and 9th Street in Sanger on Friday, September 21, 2007. A Second Memorial Service will be held at Crestview Baptist Church in Lenoir, North Carolina, on Saturday, September 29, 2007, at 10:30 a.m. In lieu of flowers, remembrances may be made to Quail Lake Community Church at 615 N. Helm Ave., Clovis, Ca 93611; Sanger Rotary Club, P.O. Box 22, Sanger, Ca 93657; or the Fresno Rescue Mission, P.O. Box 1422, Fresno, Ca 93716-1422. NEPTUNE SOCIETY of Central California Fresno, Ca. (559)222-7764

It was a strange experience writing my father’s obituary, though it was something I immediately wanted to do when we gathered as a family and wondered how we were going to get an obituary ready. My family gave me very helpful input through the process. I never thought before about how obituaries find their way into newspapers, but it makes sense that families write their loved ones’ stories. It is also a strange feeling knowing that the first thing I have ever published is this obituary. How I wish that wasn’t the case. I’m proud to tell my dad’s story (no matter how terse and overly-dependent on to be verbs the obituary is), but I’d rather talk to him on the phone today than read about him this way in the newspaper.