Shiva....and Birthdays.....

Shiva is the Jewish  period (Seven days) of mourning. The word Shiva is taken from the Hebrew word "Shiv'ah" , which literally means Seven. Seven is considered by Jews and Christians alike to be a mystically sacred number, signalling completeness. It occurs to me that in the last week, I have observed my own  Baptist girl Shiva, as I have grieved for my Nephew. Although our Jewish friends sit Shiva and mourn privately, I have mourned in a very public way. Today marks the seventh day, and accordingly, if I follow true Shiva, it is the day that I get up and go about the business of living. Oddly enough, this seventh day falls on my Father's Birthday - and this was a man who was all about the business of living. Were he alive, he would be 93 today, and I daresay that he would have been just as full of love and life and good humor as he was in his younger years. This is a man who loved to laugh, loved to celebrate...loved to live. This was a man who adored a good joke, and was the master prankster. As I wrote a few weeks ago, he put a cow in the Bell Tower at College - in the dead of night, tied the bell's rope to her collar, gave her a good smack on the hindquarters and ran. (How he ever got the cow up all those steps, I will never know). This was a man who, weary of the long winded Dean, put an alarm clock deep into the bowels of the pipe organ, and set it to go off (in repeat mode) in the middle of Convocation at the same College. This was a man who, although possessed of tremendous innate dignity, could not abide a stuffed shirt. I tell you this, because I need you to understand that no one on the face of the earth would have loved the story I am about to tell in honor of my Dad's birthday, as an end to my self imposed Shiva, more than my Dad himself. In the interest of full disclosure...this story, although absolutely, totally, 100% true, might not seem entirely appropriate....might seem more than a little irreverent...which would have made it all the more to my Dad's liking. My Father died very suddenly, with no warning whatsoever. Daddy was beloved by everyone who knew him, and was something of an institution in my hometown, so it came as no surprise to the family that the visitation at the Funeral Home the night before his Service, was worthy of Military Crowd Control. Scheduled to go from 6-8 pm, we were there until almost 10, and still there were people milling about. My sister and I, once safely back at the house, ensconced in our pajamas, sitting on the floor in the hallway (I have no idea why we all gathered there....there were lots of rooms - perhaps it is because we couldn't bear the thought of being in any of those rooms without Dad...) decided that we had not had enough private time with our Dad, so we determined that we would return to the Funeral Home in the morning, for a last visit. When we arrived, around 10:00am, there were still people coming to pay their respects. With the aid of the Funeral Director, we made a plan - the guest book would be moved into the main hall, so that folks could sign their condolences, and the entry to his viewing room would be closed off. I would sit guarding the door while my sister had her time, and then she would do the same for me. As I closed the door on my turn, I realized that there was really nothing left unsaid between my Father and me - in his last years, we had developed an enviable closeness, and we were fully at peace with each other. I stood over the casket, touching his suit sleeve, his hand - noting that death did nothing to diminish age spots. I prayed Thanksgiving over his life, and begged strength to live the rest of mine without him. After a period of time, I opened my purse and took out the small pair of scissors brought just for the purpose of taking a small cutting of his hair - a talisman for the remainder of my days.  Once that was done, I leaned over to put my head on his shoulder, one last time.... Now let me say, in my defense, that my Father was a man of substance.... that is to say, he was.... stout....well on his way to being as wide as he was tall (don't be too alarmed...he wasn't that tall!)....And the Casket....it has to weigh a ton, right?......well, the only thing I can figure is that the shiny box was sitting all wheewhompered on the base, because when I laid my head on my Dad, I felt movement....of the sort you never, ever want to feel. In an instant, the Casket AND it's contents were tipping over, in slow motion. With Ninja quick reflexes, I crouched and grabbed, halting the overturn mid way. So there I was - in my dress and my highest heels, trying to keep my Dad from falling out of the coffin that was turned almost upside down. Alerted by the banshee quality of my screams, my sister burst into the room - assessed the situation with lightning speed, and dashed to lend me a hand. With one mighty shove, we managed to right the offending object and it's inhabitant. Stunned and breathless, we could only stare at each other. And then, as if on cue, we sunk to the floor, amid gales of laughter.....the kind that makes you snort and cry and holler and hold your sides and roll around. Funeral Home employees came from all directions, baffled, I'm sure as to the source of the noise. We must have been a fearful sight, because none of them came near....just backed out of the room and closed the door on those poor dear girls, overcome with grief. (Or maybe they thought we had been on the receiving end of an instantaneous Pentecostal conversion) In the moments after we regained our composure, it seemed as if our Father had laughingly and lovingly taught us one last lesson - one that I will call upon today as my Shiva draws to a close....that life is to be lived...that loss and grief will come again and again...but that mirth and joy are never dead to us, if you only open yourself up to it....Happy Birthday Daddy - today's laughter is my gift....to you.