I had debated whether to wear non-waterproof mascara. I consulted one of my makeup expert friends, who tried to be supportive of an amateur such as myself. It was much easier to concentrate on makeup choices beforehand than my grief. I successfully distracted myself from backing out of going. A friend offered to go with me, which was very sweet, but I decided to be strong and go alone.
I walked into the church, the same one where I had attended Totoro's husband's memorial service previously. It had been their church, although she hadn't been a fan of going anymore. I think she'd attended mostly because he'd wanted her to, and it was expected.
The Priest claimed her as his own, of course. Fortunately, I didn't get smote down for my blasphemous thoughts. I sat in the back, just in case a fire broke out on me. The Priest went on and on about her piety and how saintly her church lady friend was who'd helped her. Still no smoting, even when I recalled a different reality from what he'd named. I know he was saying all that righteous stuff to comfort her family. I hope it worked. I'm always envious of people who find comfort in religion.
When he started reciting Psalm 23, all I could hear was Samuel Jackson from Pulp Fiction. I know it's not the same, but I always think of that scene when I hear it. "Say 'what' one more time!" As an aside, still no smoting. Perhaps God has a sense of humor.
There was a picture on an easel, of her smiling. Every time I looked at it, I cried. It was a fantastic picture of her happy nature. She would have been pleased. We sang some songs and said a few amens. I mumbled along as appropriate. Mostly, I cried into my tissue and tried not to smear my non-waterproof mascara.
I greeted her family and offered my condolences. They thanked me for coming. It was all very proper. She'd have been proud of them. They invited everyone to stay for food, but I'd had enough church and crying for one day. I made my apologies and bailed.