The Road to Santa Clara (Ch. 10): The Memorial Service

Ξ October 3rd, 2007 | → | ∇ Stories |

One week later I walked back to the apartment alone after the midweek evening church service. Jeff had been cornered by Jack and was trapped in a conversation and I was tired, so I motioned that I’d see him at home and walked slowly up the stairs to our apartment. The night was cool and I pulled my coat around my middle, hugging myself. I still felt the heaviness of the previous week’s events and I didn’t have the energy to make friendly conversation and force smiles—I just wanted to go home and curl up in the darkness. I flipped on the light and squinted, as always, adjusting to the bright fluorescents, then sighed and set my Bible down on the couch. As I slumped down into the couch, my cell phone beeped with an incoming call. I closed my eyes, the last thing I wanted to do was have a cheery conversation with a friend or even hear my mom’s voice—which would make me even more homesick. I grabbed my cell and looked at the screen—Megan Smith. Megan had been one of my best friends since childhood. We’d gone to school together and been inseparable. Megan and I played all four sports together, we went out for cheerleading together as a joke and made the team, we were doubles partners in tennis. We were co-captains, all-league award sharers. We got the best grades, competed against each other, and went on innumerable double dates together in high school. We had made up line dances together, gone to dozens of sports camps together, and both gone to Oregon State together. She was like a sister. She also was going through an extremely hard time because her dad, whom she adored, had cancer.
Chiding myself for being so selfish, I took a deep breath and clicked the green button to answer.
“Hey Megs,” I summoned a hair of enthusiasm. It was silent. A chill ran up my spine as dread and horror filled my heart. No. No. I heard her cry. “Megan! What?! Megan!” I closed my eyes and pressed my face against the cushion on the couch.
“He’s gone,” she whispered. I groaned and tears filled my eyes, spilling down my cheeks as I sat in silence, unable to even comprehend the pain that she must be feeling. Megan was a daddy’s girl if there ever was one. While she and her mom weren’t necessarily very close, Megan and Brian, her dad, were inseparable. The previous year, while he’d been sick with cancer, Megan had moved back home to take care of him, putting aside her plans to attend law school in order to be near him in Molalla. She’d sat with him during chemo, driven him to doctor’s appointments, and slept on the couch by his hospital bed when he’d have relapses and have to be hospitalized. She’d submitted prayer requests every single week at church, asking for a miracle. She’d believed that God would heal Him.
The silence was a gulf, a chasm that seemed unbridgeable. What could I say, six-hundred miles away that would take the place of a hug, a touch, of just silently holding her. There was nothing. We sat in silence, I could hear her crying and I just prayed, with every ounce of my being, that God would hold her, that He would comfort her, that He would be there with her even if I couldn’t be. The feeling of helplessly sitting there, unable to do anything, feeling worlds apart from the only person in the world I wanted to see, made me angry. We finally talked briefly; she told me of his last moments and how my parents had just shown up at the house. I was so thankful they were there, but filled with frustration that I couldn’t be. We finally said goodbye as Jeff walked in the door. He saw me crying and rushed to the couch. After I told him what happened, he held me, then grabbed his laptop. “You’re going home,” he said.
The memorial service was scheduled for Sunday, and I had to be in Southern California for a friend’s wedding the Thursday following. So, even though Jeff and I had never spent more than one night apart (when he’d gotten the Jeep in Oregon), we booked a flight for Sunday, then another flight directly from Oregon down to LA for the wedding. Jeff would drive to the wedding and meet me, then we could drive back to Santa Clara together the day after the wedding. I was so thankful that I hadn’t taken the job at BioTech, realizing that I’d never have been able to take a week off.
Early Sunday morning Jeff dropped me off at the airport. The memorial service started at 2pm and my flight arrived at 12:30pm. It took an hour to drive from the airport to Molalla, so I figured it’d work out perfectly. As I walked in the front doors of the airport, something seemed wrong. A line of people ran from outside the door. I figured they were waiting for something in particular, so I made my way through the hallways, excusing myself and went to the e-ticket booth. After finishing my check-in, I turned toward the security gate and realized, to my horror, that the line was for security. I blinked in disbelief, looking back at the winding line of frustrated, late, impatient travelers. I slowly walked back along the line, unsure of where it began. Step by step my heart sunk as I followed the line back, down the stairs, through the entrance lobby, outside and into the parking garage, where it wound around in eight zigzag lines through an entire level of the parking garage, like Disneyland during spring break. Tears filled my eyes as hatred for this stupid city filled my heart. I knew I would miss the funeral, and there was nothing I could do. I called Jeff, crying, blaming the stupid place we lived for the ridiculous crowds, hating the city, hating the people, hating the helplessness of being trapped there.
Jeff talked me through my tears, and miraculously, after an hour of winding through the lines, I was cleared by security, ran to my gate, and was admitted just three minutes before the scheduled departure time. I collapsed in my seat, exhausted but relieved. I was going home.
As the plane taxied and finally took off, I leaned back my seat and closed my eyes, letting my thoughts drift to Brian Smith’s life. He really was Molalla personified. He was born in Molalla in the 40s and he played a lot of sports, drank a lot of beer, and shot a lot of elk—just like everyone else. But he never left Molalla. By trade, he was a Christmas tree farmer. He always wore a John Deere hat with a short-sleeved plaid shirt, and thick glasses—and always had a beer in his hand. I don’t think he really liked school that much, and he never went to college. He cussed a lot, but he was better known for his phrases, “Geez-Louise!” and “Holy Jumpin’ up-an-down Martha!” I suppose some people might have labeled Brian as “obnoxious,” and I suppose he was, but he never pretended to not be.
Other than beer, Brian had two great loves in life—his dog, Brandy, and his daughter, Megan. He loved his dog Brandy so much, that when she died, he got a new dog and named her Brandy. When she died, he got a new dog and named her Brandy. When she died, he got a new dog and named her Brandy. So, there were a total of four Brandy’s and he loved every single one of them like his own kids.
Megan however, was the joy of his life. Since Megan was an incredible athlete, he became a faithful fan, volunteering to take tickets at the door and hand out programs, arriving for each game at least an hour early. When Megan led the volleyball team to a victory against the Sisters outlaws, Brian was the first one to run out on the court and lift her in the air. When we lost the state-playoff game in Sweet Home, Brian was the first to come and hold Megan while she cried. When Megan and I decided to try doubles tennis our Senior year, he stood outside the court, rattling the chain-link fence with his hands, cheering us on. When she went on to play college basketball, and driving to game sites took the better part of a day, he was there—still loud, still obnoxious, cheering her on. He never missed a game.
It didn’t bother Brian that there was no Starbucks in Molalla. Every morning Brian darkened the doorway of the Hitchin’ Post, the little café right along Main Street across from the funeral home. He ordered biscuits ‘n gravy with a side of corned beef hash and a cup of black coffee. Every morning. For lunch, the Bowling Alley was his restaurant of choice, where he hollered, “The usual!” from across the room and they’d bring him the patty melt with criss-cut fries and a big pickle on the side. He paid his tab off every month. Brian’s son, Greg, was the head bartender at The Spot, which was just around the corner from the White Horse. Needless to say, Brian had a free beer every afternoon as he passed by in the Christmas tree truck.
After work, on non-game days, of course, Brian could usually be found watching Matlock or Hawaii 5-0, taped from that afternoon. I think Megan was the one who managed to make the timer function work on the VCR so he could watch Matlock without coming home in the middle of the day. He couldn’t figure out “that cotton pickin’ contraption,” so Megan set it up to tape his favorites every day.
Brian also loved to re-name people. No one was called by his or her real name if Brian had anything to do with it. Megan was “Maggot” and I was “Bertha,” and eventually Jeff was re-named “Ralph.” I’m not sure why he called his beloved daughter “Maggot,” but he did. That was just Brian.
What amazed Molalla was that, in the last year of his life, Brian came to know Christ. Megan had invited him to church for years, but he never wanted anything to do with “religion”. But, as the cancer worsened, he began looking at his life a little differently, and finally agreed to come. Three months later, he prayed to receive Christ, surrendering his life and receiving His forgiveness. Though he had always been a happy man, he became marked by a peace that permeated his life, despite the losing battle with cancer. Because everyone in the community knew Brian, his testimony was widespread. Everyone knew that Brian came to know Jesus.
“Hello there passengers, looks like the weather for Portland is 58 degrees and raining, surprise surprise. We’ll be touching down in about fifteen minutes so if you could put your seat in the upright and locked position . . .” the Captain interrupted my thoughts. I chuckled to myself at my memories of Brian as we disembarked and I walked toward the exit through the familiar airport corridors.
My brother and his wife were waiting on the curb when I emerged from the front doors, pulling up my hood in the pouring rain. I settled into the backseat and we drove in silence as I watched the sweetly familiar surroundings—freeways, trees, grass, stores, restaurants, landmarks. As we winded along the country roads, entering Molalla, I smiled at Brinkman’s Dairy, smelling as always of manure, and felt the familiar curves of the road I’d driven for more than twenty years. Everything was exactly as I expected it, familiar and predictable, except for the scene outside the Methodist church. Approaching it was were stopped by cars, lined up for blocks, looking for parking. The church parking lot was full, and the Y Burger restaurant had closed for the day to give up their parking lot for the service. Cars lined the main street through town and even ran along the adjacent country road along the Coleman ranch. A line of people stood in the rain, waiting to go inside. Megan’s mom stood at the front door, greeting each person with a hug. My brother dropped us off near the front and left to park. As I approached the line, innumerable familiar faces appeared—subdued because of the occasion, but still smiling, and warm and full of life. I saw high school friends and old teachers, all looking similar but slightly worn.
Inside the door stood Megan’s, but she was nowhere in sight. Finally, my childhood pastor came and found me and asked that I come and see her. She stood around the corner, by herself, looking out at the long line of people outside, crying. Her eyes were dark and heavy, her shoulders thin and hanging—but she fell into my arms and just rested her forehead on my shoulder. “This sucks,” was all she could say.
The sanctuary had standing room only, with people filling the fellowship hall as well stretching their necks to see up to the front. The service lasted two and a half hours—and I’m convinced those people would have stayed all night if they could. The microphone was open for any who wanted to share fond memories about Brian, and the pastor had to set a time limit because so many people wanted to share. I sat on a pew near the front, squeezed tightly between seven of my dearest high school friends, all of us who had loved Megan throughout our Molalla years. We whispered about ex-boyfriends we spotted, now married with children, we sang Brian’s favorite hymns, and we held hands as we prayed.
Near the end of the service, the pastor shared a story. He said, “When Brian was starting to feel sicker, with the cancer, he took his son Elk hunting. While they were out Elk hunting, he was waiting patiently, silently, and all day they didn’t see a thing. Finally, Brian began considering his future, realizing that his time left here might be short. He prayed, ‘God, if this is my last time ever Elk hunting, will you send me a really big one?’ Just then, an enormous Elk passed right in front of his vision. ‘Oh sh*t!’ was all Brian could say.” The congregation roared laughing, partly out of amazement that the pastor had said what he said, and partly out of love for their ever candid and rough-around-the-edges Brian Smith. After the service, everyone stayed for a potluck, Molalla-style, complete with plenty of baked beans, potato salad, and pecan pie. To an onlooker, it would seem more like a family reunion than a funeral, as people stayed for hours, reminiscing and telling stories, laughing and catching up for lost time.
The eight of us girls sat together around Megan, forsaking our diets for the sake of homemade chocolate-chip cookies, and telling funny Brian Smith stories we remembered from years ago. The same girls who years ago had sworn they wanted to move as far away as possible, were now tossing around the dream that we should all move back and raise our kids together. “We could all be neighbors, and have Barbeques together, and go to little league games every Saturday!” Jennifer suggested. I shook my head, but had to admit that sounded like a dream come true as I considered arriving back in Santa Clara.
Stephanie was torn because she explained, “I love San Diego, but I love it here, too.”
“But, here loves you,” Jennifer reminded her. I sat quiet for a long time.

–
The next few days I spent time with Megan. We met at the church where we ate leftovers from the memorial and I helped her pack the flowers into her car. Thursday I flew to LA, exhausted emotionally, but thankful for the time of rest and relaxation at home. The wedding that weekend went well, and the eight hour drive back to Santa Clara was a perfect time for Jeff and me to download our thoughts and emotions with each other. I shared how much the memorial service had impacted me, how a simple man like Brian had impacted people by his genuineness, his authenticity, and by the transformation people saw in him when he came to Christ. I shared about the power of a community that has been together for so many years, that has a history together—the accountability, the depth of friendship and love. I thought about how Megan and her family had literally been overwhelmed with support, letters, calls, meals, flowers, cards. They were lifted up in prayer by countless prayer chains. I hadn’t always liked how small Molalla was—everyone knew everyone and as a teenager it seemed stifling. But now, as I watched the fabric of the community wrapped around a hurting family, it was beautiful.

The next week went by quickly, as I caught up on household chores I’d missed by being gone. The laundry was always a week-long chore because there were either wet clothes in the washer or dried clothes in the dryer at all times. At first I’d check back every few hours, thinking their owner would come at any time, but I soon realized it would be several days. Once I actually took out a load of dry clothes so I could get mine dry, then felt awkward handling men’s boxer briefs so I never did that again.
Seeing how encouraged I was from my visit home, Jeff announced that we should fly home for Thanksgiving, despite the exorbitant airfare prices. I was ecstatic. Holidays as a family were among my greatest joys in life. Though my mom’s parents had died when I was young, the rest of our entire family—my brother and his wife, my two aunts and uncles, my five cousins, my cousin’s wife, and my grandma all got together for every holiday, and thanksgiving was a highlight. There was always my grandma’s homemade apple pie and my aunt’s pumpkin pie. Brandy, who was one of my best friends and also my cousin Ben’s wife, always brought the bread pudding and my mom made the homemade crescent rolls. My cousin Mack’s mashed potatoes oozed with butter and I always had a second helping of aunt Linda’s green beans with smoked chipotle seasoning.
But what I looked forward to more than the food was the laughter and fun. “The boys”, who were in their thirties, consisted of my three male cousins on my mom’s side. They were hilarious and made us laugh until our stomachs hurt. We played Pictionary and Cranium, and then lounged around the fireplace telling stories or talking politics. As I thought about the coming holiday, I couldn’t wait to settle down on the couch with Brandy and my sister-in-law Nikki and just talk and laugh and savor the refuge of family.
Friday afternoon, with the laundry finally finished, I began sautéing onions to make my favorite butternut squash soup for dinner. As I stood slowly stirring, my cell phone rang, and after seeing it was my mom, I turned the stove down to simmer and dropped onto the couch, pulling my feet up to settle in for a chat. We chitchatted briefly, but I could tell there was something going on.
“What is it, Mom?” She was silent for a moment. I held my breath.
“I haven’t wanted to tell you, but since you’re coming home for Thanksgiving you have to know.” I waited. “Brandy told Ben to move out—they’ve split up.” I couldn’t breathe. That same feeling, like I’d been kicked in the stomach, once again overwhelmed me. I’d never have guessed this news. Ben and Brandy had been high school sweethearts. They’d dated for what seemed like decades. I’d been the maid of honor in their wedding, standing by Brandy and signing their marriage certificate. The three of us, Brandy, my sister-in-law and myself, had always talked about marriage and how to encourage and build up our husbands, respecting them and loving them. How, how on earth, could they be separated?
“What? Why?!” My mom said she didn’t know the details, but that she thought things had been rough for awhile. Ben was up to his eyeballs in medical school and Brandy was climbing the political ladder, busy with elections and parties and conventions. They’d drifted, fought, and parted. My aunt, who’d just miraculously recovered from cancer, was so devastated over the situation she couldn’t even eat. Mom was worried that she’d give up and relapse because of grief. After we’d hung up, I sat on the couch, stunned. Once again, being six hundred miles away made me feel helpless. I couldn’t go see her, I couldn’t hug my aunt or experience the situation in the bosom of the family. I felt like I was trapped at a distance while I watched my family fall apart before my eyes.
Brandy and I had always had a close relationship, and one of the things that had marked it was our ability to be open and honest with each other. I could tell Brandy hard things, and while she might not like it, she’d respect the fact that I was willing to tell her. So, hoping that I could at least understand what was going on, I dialed Brandy’s number.
“Brandy Scott here.” Scott? What happened to Miller, Ben’s last name?
“Brandy. It’s Kari.”
“Hello.” Her voice was cold.
“I heard.”
“Yes, I supposed you had. I have nothing to say about it. I know that you and your family are very conservative and are probably very shocked that I would ask Ben to move out. But I’m a big girl and I know what I’m doing. Ben and I are very different people and I need to do what it takes to give myself the best life possible. Right now that does not include him.” Her words were prickly, practiced. The warm and vulnerable and emotional Brandy I knew, was gone. I couldn’t stop myself, and though I knew I was being foolish, I was so hurt by her iciness I couldn’t think straight.
“What are you doing?! This is not the Brandy I know! You’ve always told me to fight for my marriage, to love Jeff no matter what, to stand by my man. How could you do this?! How could you?!” I was out of control with crying. I wanted to reason with her, to be strong and composed and tell her truth, but it hurt so bad I just collapsed into tears.
“Kari, I understand that you feel emotional about this. I have already done my share of crying. I’m done. I’m sure this is very hard for you, and for Linda. . .”
“You don’t care about Linda–you’re killing her!” I shouted into the phone, then hated myself for saying it. I knew I shouldn’t accuse her of such a thing, but her calm, cold, canned responses felt like she was standing over me, stepping on my heart, smashing it into the ground like a cigarette butt. I sobbed, but was unable to speak.
“I will not be treated like this. I have work to do. Goodbye.” And she hung up. I lay in a heap of tears on the couch, the phone still in my open hand. It slipped from my fingers and fell on the floor. I pulled my knees to my chest and stared at the wall. Finally, the smell of onions filled the house, and there was nothing to do but walk, slowly and mechanically, into the kitchen and numbly add the ingredients for the soup. I stood and stared, stirring the soup, until Jeff came home from work.