Helping at a Friend's Funeral

Yolanda Colin, September 1962 - August 2012

In "As Befits a Man," Langston Hughes wrote

I don’t mind dying—
But I’d hate to die all alone!

The pew sitters were shoulder to shoulder Saturday. Ushers brought out extra chairs and still people filled the back of the church, two and three people deep.

Certainly, Yolanda Colin didn’t die alone.

I was honored to be a pallbearer at her Aug. 25 funeral. I like being a pallbearer. It is the last time I can help a friend. It is one small way I can help deliver them to their final place of rest.

Part of my responsibilities with others was to prepare her casket for the airplane that would fly her remains to her native New Orleans. We tightened the straps around the cardboard box surrounding her ornate casket before the hearse pulled away to the airport.  

I met Yolanda in 2006. I was a newcomer to St. Anthony of Padua Church, Atlanta. It was the annual Men’s Day Celebration. At the conclusion of Mass, the priest called all the men up to the foot of the altar for a blessing.

At that point, I developed a profound fascination with the floor. Hand to God, I never stared so intently at my shoes and the floor then in those moments. I had just moved from New Hampshire and I can tell you how many times men at my former parishes had been called to the front of the faith community for a blessing. Zero.

And at this point I should say, I am white. Most folks in the parish are not. St. Anthony is home to a vibrant black Catholic community.

So, to review: Altar calls were not something I did. Ever. I was new. I was conscious that I would be the only white person amongst the two-dozen men.

Some how Yolanda caught my eye as we shared a pew. With her were her two young boys, who are now teenagers. She nodded that I should go up. I politely tried to brush her off. Thanks, but I’m studying very intently whether I need a new pair of shoes, I hope my actions showed. 

She persisted. Certainly, she must have me mistaken for someone else, I thought in my mind.  

But gently, with a whisper to go and a small wave with her hand, she got me out of my pew. I joined the group.

St. Anthony since that fall day has been my home.

I treasure that memory of how this woman kindly reached out and made me take a step I never would have taken on my own.

We visited last on Sunday, Aug. 19, as she rested in hospice. I thanked her. We smiled over  the memory. I showed her pictures of my newborn. She told me to plant a kiss on the youngster's big toe. So said, so done.

Archbishop Oscar Romero, of El Salvador, is said to have paraphrased St. John of the Cross, in his words:  

“In the evening of life you will be judged on love.” 

I hope that as Yolanda moved from this life that her kindness to me was written in big bold letters in the book of life. 

--Andrew Nelson

What I Saw:

Song at a funeral for an Atlanta Catholic priest by anelson-1

I attended the funeral of Marist Father Larry Schmuhl last week, and I wrote about it in the Sept. 1 "Georgia Bulletin."

There's a custom I first noticed at other funerals for priests. And I don't know if it's part of the funeral rite for priests, or a nice tradition that has been adopted by clergy. (Or perhaps lay people also have this custom, but I am not familiar with it.)

After the prayer of commendation and the conclusion of Mass, priests gather and circle the casket before it's placed in the hearse.

The group chants the prayer "Salve Regina" in Latin. The prayer may date to the 11th century, according to Wikipedia.

In Latin:

Salve, Regina, Mater misericordiae,
vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve.
ad te clamamus exsules filii Hevae,
ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes
in hac lacrimarum valle.
Eia, ergo, advocata nostra, illos tuos
misericordes oculos ad nos converte;
et Jesum, benedictum fructum ventris tui,
nobis post hoc exsilium ostende.
O clemens, O pia, O dulcis Virgo Maria.

In English:

Hail, holy Queen, Mother of Mercy,
our life, our sweetness and our hope.
To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve;
to thee do we send up our sighs,
mourning and weeping in this valley of tears.
Turn then, most gracious advocate,
thine eyes of mercy toward us;
and after this our exile,
show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary.

--Andrew