I smiled when I saw them at the graveside service; their presence, though unusual, didn’t surprise me.
The honor guard was standing at attention for Frank Spragans, the deceased, whose service I had just officiated. We had concluded the service at the funeral home and were at the graveside. But what was the honor guard doing there? Frank had never served in the military.
I’ve officiated many a funeral service where the honor guard fulfills their mission of providing honors for those in active duty, retirees, and veteran members who served honorably in the military, but Frank was a faithful church member, not a military man. To be sure, he had served at his church for many years, where I was his pastor. But the honor guard doesn’t recognize committed church members.
“It’s just a shame,” I mentioned to the family members, “that of all people, his funeral couldn’t be held at the church, where he worshipped for so many years.” They all nodded in sad agreement.
For sure, funerals have been different during the Covid-19 crisis. Lock-down restrictions have created a uniquely tragic situation, where people want to gather with others, from intimate loved ones to casual acquaintances, and grieve the death of their deceased in a public setting. Rituals of grief have been interrupted, as if the process of healing could somehow be suspended, only to be taken up later when life returns to a more “normal” status. Complaining is useless. It is as it is. Everyone knows the necessary guidelines. Funeral services are among the cherished gatherings that simply were not to be.
Nonetheless, as I look into the eyes of the grieving, I hurt with them because I know their pain will continue after the pandemic has ended, and the memory of a funeral or lack of it, will hold something of an empty space for the bereaved, as they yearn for a salve that was withheld and long for a relief for an ache embedded deep within, indicative of a loss that can’t be glossed over, for the moment of public remembrance has vanished forever.
But, at this funeral, they showed up, that is, the honor guard. Standing on a hill, spaced apart along an imaginary line, a good distance away from the gravesite and the family, they stood at attention and saluted their comrade, Frank Spragans. I later learned that Frank had not asked for them to be there. A representative of the honor guard simply told the family, “We’re coming.” And of course, no one objected, for their presence was fitting and proper.
Many years ago, Frank had volunteered to serve as a bugler for the honor guard, and he had fulfilled his duty with pride and commitment. No one knows the number of times Frank was there, year after year, honoring those who had served their country.
So, on Frank’s day, though friends could only view the service online, he was properly remembered. The honor guard not only reminded us gathered there that day that the deceased are not forgotten, but that others whom they have touched somehow make an appearance also, even if only in the distant undertones of the bugler playing taps.