The Good Life
Reflections on the Memorial Service for My Grandfather, Milburn Rinehart
Around two years ago, my family celebrated the homegoing of Milburn Rinehart, or as me and my siblings knew him, Grandpa. He passed away after battling a cancer of the blood for the better part of a decade.
As time marches on, the sting of death has faded a little. But looking back at that day some two years ago, a bitter-sweet collection of memories quickly surfaces.
Undoubtedly, the sting of death is real, and the loss hurts. Our grandmother has lost her husband of 55 years. My dad and his siblings lost their father. Me, my siblings, and our cousins feel the loss of our family patriarch.
As our family gathered for the funeral service, committal, and dinner, there was a real and pervasive grief. There is no doubt that death hurts.
But in a good kind of paradoxical reality, the natural grief of physical death was accompanied and at some moments even overwhelmed by a swelling sense of hope. It was a hope that in spite of the pain and loss, things were now actually better than they were before.
Because losing a loved one to a terminal illness is widely shared human experience, I know we were not unique in being relieved Grandpa wasn’t suffering anymore. Anyone who has watched a loved one endure sustained physical pain can’t help but feel relief when the suffering finally ceases. But the hope that flooded the gathering for my grandpa’s funeral was far weightier than the simple relief of his sickness being behind him.
I first felt this numinous joy when our immediate family gathered several hours before the visitation would begin. There are around 40 kids, grandkids, great grandkids, and spouses in our little clan, and we are blessed to be able to gather once or twice a year as a small tribe. Us being all together isn’t an uncommon occurrence, but the occasion for this gathering was naturally different than most. We prayed together, sang together, snacked on a couple of trays of Chick-Fil-A, and talked about Grandpa’s life. To be sure, we grieved seeing the hollow shell that was his earthly body. But like light shining through a stained-glass window, there was a hope that added a real beauty to the entire scene.
This hope was compounded by the sheer number of people that gathered to celebrate Grandpa’s life that day. It was as if with each new face that walked through the doors, the collective sense of awe steadily grew. A couple hundred people, many of whom I knew, and many of whom I didn’t, gathered to celebrate the life of my Grandpa.
It’s funny how life provides few occasions for us to see all of those by whom we are known and loved. Outside of weddings and funerals, we are limited to smaller gatherings of friends and family. But at Grandpa’s funeral, the mood was similar to the final scene of “It’s a Wonderful Life.” Young and old, rich and poor, physical family and spiritual family all came to pay their respects to a man who spent his life loving others. Grandpa didn’t get to see everyone that day—at least not that I know of. (I’m not totally sure of the coverage of earthly events that saints in heaven receive.) But everyone at the funeral got to see all of the other lives that were touched by Milburn Rinehart.
My brothers and I, as well as our male cousins got to sing a song together as a part of the service. It was one of my grandpa’s favorites: “Maybe Today My Lord Will Come for Me.” I was asked to lead the singing of a couple of congregational songs as well—one of which was “Great is Thy Faithfulness.” I don’t believe I will ever forget the sound of two hundred some voices singing the final chorus a cappella. We were celebrating a man who had faithfully served the Faithful One.
There wasn’t any single aspect of Grandpa’s life that would have caused several hundred people to attend his funeral. In fact, his life was ordinary by many measures. He married young, had three children, graduated from Virginia Tech as an engineer, and had a respectable career. He was never filthy rich, famous, or flashy. He served as a deacon in his church, visited his children and grandchildren, and moved to help take care of his in-laws.
Each stage of his life was marked by quietly loving, giving, and serving those around him. He wasn’t perfect, to be sure. But his life was free of any defining vice or sin which might taint our memory of him. He faithfully loved Grandma, worked hard, and served his church.
As a result, the funeral manifested a joy and hope because we were celebrating a race well run. Grandpa did the thing that all believers should aspire too: he lived a quiet and peaceable life loving and serving the ones God gave him. As a result, two hundred voices singing in celebration and worship created a moment that I can only describe as heaven on earth.
That is the type of memorial service for which we should all strive: one surrounded by physical and spiritual generations celebrating and singing praise to God. While we look forward to that glad reunion day, may God help us run our race like Grandpa ran his.
