“’T’was grace that taught my heart to fear,

And grace my fears relieved…”

I am sitting in the second to last pew, my brother at my left, my sister at my right. Far in front of us sits the body, the shell, the corpse of a man we three had admired so greatly. His body is limp and too skinny to fill up the suit they put on him. His face is caked with make-up they put on in an attempt to cover up his yellowing skin, a sign of the jaundice. He has eyeliner on, and his lashes come to an effeminate point. All I can think of, staring down at his frail corpse, are the westerns I had seen on TV, the dead bodies done up in that pale white powder, lying in the casket on the back of a wagon. He has a compass resting on his chest, hanging from a string from the inside of his jacket. At least, it would be hanging if he were ever to sit up again. On top and around him rest Bibles and Hymnals turned to specific pages and verses. They will go to the grave with him. I can’t help but wonder when they close the casket if they will bump and rattle around and bother the pallbearers. I look at his corpse again; it looks so empty.

About six months ago I had heard that Steve Kline had colon cancer. I didn’t think about it; I didn’t visit him. Cancer was unreal, an unimaginable terror, the Hades in Greek myths, the monster under my bed. Steve Kline was a man of God, a man who overcame, the man who sang loudest in church, the man who feared nothing. Yet he stood, facing the mythical beast, and I knew, like all the heroes before him, in the end he would overcome.

Now at the funeral, it is hard to believe that after an hour or two of solemn service I will be at a house filled with people and mini-quiches and pinwheels and cheese cubes and small talk and prayer and song and smile and on and on and on until I can find a viable excuse to leave. I will be there, uncomfortably discussing school with former friends. I will be forcibly polite. I will laugh at bad jokes. I will not pile too many finger foods on my plate. I will sit quietly in the corner. I will turn around often, to see if Steve will be there; he won’t be.

Months prior, I had gotten periodic updates from my father. He had a such-and-such procedure, the doctor recommended this or that. I didn’t understand most of it, but my mother, the nurse, explained each of them to me carefully in full detail. .I followed along like a tabloid junky. I picked up information on Steve’s health in floating conversations. I traded news like stocks and bonds; I invested everything but my emotions.

Seven years before the cancer before the updates before the death before the funeral before the reception, I was at Steve’s house, begrudgingly, celebrating my thirteenth birthday party. My mother had fled my father and the haunting memories with fervor, finding sanctuary at the Klines’ house. She stayed in their home until she could save up for her own place. She shared meals, prayers and, that night, my birthday. Marilyn Kline, Steve’s wife, baked me a cake. As I stood over it, Steve took the first picture my family had taken together in years.

And then, seven years later, my phone rang. I was in class, and it was my father. I hit ignore and shoved my phone back in my pocket, continuing to follow along with the day’s lecture on the intricacies of Mark Twain. As I walked out of class, my stomach had a sickening premonition. I hesitated, but I checked my voicemail anyway. Steve Kline had a few days to live.

Five years back, when I was fifteen, I didn’t think I would ever see Steve again, and that was something I couldn’t care less about. I had moved to Sherwood to live with my mother and to get away from my father. My parents had been divorced for a couple of years at that point. The church fell out of our lives and became a dreadfully dull and painful subject for me. My mother worked constantly, and I was a bitter, questioning adolescent with a guitar that my mother bought for me on my last birthday. My mother was at work, and I was learning a Nirvana song in our crummy dim-lit apartment when Steve showed up at the door.

“Is your mother home?”

“No, she’s at work.”

“Ah. Well, do you mind if I come in?”

I hesitated.

“The place is kind of a mess.”

“Well, I don’t mind. I just want to talk, to see how you’re doing.”

Again, I hesitated.

“Well, I don’t know…I. I don’t know.”

He looked at me sympathetically.

“Are you hungry? I could take you out to lunch.”

I was reluctant, but then again, free food was always a good offer.

“Well. Give me a minute to get ready.”

I closed the door, leaving him in the breezeway, and scrambled to get my shoes and socks on, all the while hating myself for agreeing to this. I wasn’t looking forward to sitting through a meal of preaching. The Subway down the block was as far as I’d let him take me.

“Do you want to see something neat?” he asked as we sat down at a table.

I was skeptical, but the man had bought me a sandwich, so I relented. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black future-esque device. My eyes widened and my interest peaked.

“It’s my new PDA. I can access anything I want from it. It has all my phone numbers, addresses, appointments, and even a Bible!”

He handed it to me, and I admired it cautiously. I was unsure of what to touch or what to do with it. I dangled it loosely, as though it were a wild snake, irate and waiting to bite me at any moment. Steve looked at me knowingly and retrieved the device from my clumsy clutches.

I continued my meal peacefully, making light talk, and when he dropped me off at home, I realized that my soul remained completely unsaved. I was struck with regret for misjudging him so callously. Perhaps, I thought, it was possible that he just cared about me.

And then on a Tuesday, after five years, I would see him again.

“I like the color they chose for the door.”

My mother nodded.

“You know,” she said, pointing towards the small garden out front, “I gave Marilyn that rabbit statute.”

I smiled in appreciation.

We rang the doorbell, and looked at the ground. The door opened slowly, revealing Marilyn Kline. Her eyes were much more tired than I had ever recalled seeing before, with deep bags hanging beneath them like twin miniature abysses.

“Suzy, Phillip. Please come in!”

She hugged each of us in turn, slowly, desperately, clinging to us as though it may never happen again.

“How is he?” my mom inquired.

“Fair to middling.”

We went into the den. An old couch had been pushed in there, blocking off the electric organ I had loved to fiddle around on as a kid. Near the corner, tucked away, sat a skeleton. It rose up, slowly, weakly, and met us with a handshake that desperately tried to be hearty, but barely managed to even be a handshake at all.

“Suzy! Nathaniel!” a voice squeaked.

“No, this is Phillip!” Marilyn corrected.

“You look so much like your brother. You’ve grown up so much!” the squeak replied.

I was appalled. Is this what death looked like? I could recall with chagrin my own moments of terror. Every night, I was tossing and turning with a fear that there was a gas leak, itching with imaginary scabies, popping aspirin for headaches I thought were tumors, and doubling over with stomach pain that was undoubtedly—well—stomach pain that I thought was colon cancer. Yet here was the real thing, and my heart sank. There was no music, no glory, no beauty, only a delicate squeaking skeleton strung up like a marionette with all of the tubes and wires. This was death, and I was just a fool.

And it was hard to think that this was once a man, a brave man, a faithful man of God, a man who always seemed to be in my life. I could recall being seven and empty and shy, sitting in the back row with the other kids during the do-it-yourself church meetings we held in our living room. I mostly mouthed the hymns and stared at the floor, but Steve would work his way through the rows of fold-out chairs and find me. He would give me a hearty grab on the shoulder and raise his voice even higher, lowering his head to make eye contact. Whether I liked it or not, I couldn’t help but laugh at his domineering spirit, and my voice would rise to meet his, echoing off of the popcorn ceiling and the newly installed storm windows my father was so proud of.

And now, at his funeral, I find it so hard to raise my voice in song. The hymns echo dryly off my ears, my mouth moves mechanically. I keep hoping to see if someone is there to raise my spirit, to raise my voice, to hear it ring from the ceiling again, but all I hear is the sound of a hundred mourners’ voices returning back to them from the mausoleum walls as the casket, his body and all, enter into the deep dark hole of eternity.