mr. berger

Today, I went to a funeral. Now, let me tell you that I usually find every excuse not to attend them. However, I had used up all of my excuses and I was sick of being stuck in the house anyway. But that’s another story. Anyway, I entered that little church across from my childhood home with more than a few memories in tow. Let me tell you what I know about Mr. Berger. He was a black man; most all of our neighbors growing up were black. He never said a lot but always had a smile and a wave ready for us kids as he drove past our house everyday to go to work and sometimes as he drove to the mailbox. I especially remember the summers. My brother and I always took Mr. Berger and his wife fresh zucchini and squash from our garden. (They liked the yellow summer squash the best. And, they liked it grown bigger than how my mama fixed it.) They would always give us a dollar or two and after riding our bikes down the long driveway back up to our house, we would count out the exact change and divide it evenly, contemplating the glory of having such riches. Another cool thing about the Berger’s is that their driveway was paved and had a huge hill on which my brother and I spent many hours go carting, bicycling, skating, and rollerblading. More often than not we spent most of the time wrapping body parts in bandages after trying to accomplish some feat such as defying gravity and stopping the go cart when the accelerator stuck. In the winter, life on that hill was not so easy. We spent many an hour shoveling snow off of that pavement that seemed all uphill. But it was always worth it to receive that reparation of a hand full of change and a cup of hot chocolate in the Berger kitchen. So these were the memories that I was reminiscing when I entered that old, country church. It was this church I should mention that during the summer, when the wind blew in the right direction, we could hear the singing from up on that old hill. Anyway, I meandered in all dressed in black, of course, and soon came to realize that I was the only white person in attendance. This didn’t surprise me. I recall many years ago attending this same church but it had been so long, I hardly remembered how I was supposed to act. So I somberly chose a seat near the middle; the church was full of men with colorful suits and women with large hats. It crossed my mind that no matter it was winter, they had to be sweating underneath their entire garb. However, I busied myself with reading the obituary until the funeral began. I don’t know what I was expecting: maybe some sorrowful singing and long passages of Scripture. I didn’t go to praise the Lord. I didn’t go to dance. I certainly didn’t go to praise the Lord, dance and shed my clothing along the way! I was somber. I was dressed in black. I was ready for a funeral. But let me use the words of the pastor, “This is not a funeral. This is a homecoming.” So for the next hour or so we sang and danced and cried and laughed so much I thought we would raise poor Mr. Berger right from the casket in front of us. The church resonated with powerful voices. I realized that it didn’t matter what God was doing right then because no matter where he was there was no way he couldn’t hear that singing. And we danced. Scarves, gloves and jackets were flung from the women’s bodies. Men started sweating profusely and wiping their brows with perfectly folded handkerchiefs. The rows pulsed and rocked and waved until even I was caught up in the passion. It didn’t matter that I can’t sing or dance. I could move and that’s all that mattered. We cried not because we were sad. No, there was no sadness in that church. We cried for joy. We cried because we had known Mr. Berger. We cried because we knew that he was somewhere up there, probably crying for joy, as well. So, yes- today, I went to a funeral. But, today, I not only mourned the loss of a great man, I celebrated his life. Today, I dove face first into a culture that had surrounded me all my life, but that had not permeated the walls that society sanctions. Today, I became a little bit more diverse. Today, I have learned that old Mr. Berger meant more to me than just a smile, a wave and some pocket change.