Free The Big Shuffle by Laura Pedersen Page B

man who worked with Dad talks about what a devoted family man and wonderful coworker my father was. Certainly no one is going to jump up and dispute that.
    Eric strides up to the podium and reads Psalm 46. His voice comes across clear and strong, especially during the part about “therefore we will not fear, though the Earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea.” I hear sniffles and sobs reverberating throughout the sanctuary. Although Eric is as big and powerful as Dad, he doesn't bear a strong resemblance to our father. But Eric
sounds
exactly like Dad.
    I was asked to speak but said no. Basically everyone here is aware that I left home at fifteen, play cards, and then there was all that nonsense about the missing money. Besides, what would I say? I doubt that a Bible verse from an underage gambler would go down real well today.
    Reverend Gordon hugs Eric solidly before he returns to our pew. Then she asks the assembled mourners, “Where could we find stronger words of comfort? And not with just any God, mind you, but with the one true God, the creating, redeeming, and loving God …”
    Off to the side I catch a glimpse of Jane's mother nodding her head up and down in vigorous agreement. I've never really thought much about funerals, having been to only one in my life, at the age of six, when Mom's father died. Now I begin to wonder if these rituals are supposed to make a mourner feel better or worse? I mean, maybe they're intended to land a personat rock bottom so after you leave it's possible to start climbing back up again. I don't know. All that's clear right now is that the kids are getting itchy in these fancy clothes, they're starting to fidget, and it seems as if the service might actually overlap with the Second Coming.
    “The Book of John speaks of our heavenly Father's house,” continues Reverend Gordon, her voice rising in that ministerial way that indicates we're finally coming in for a landing.
    She closes her eyes tight and raises her hands, palms upward. “In our Father's house there are many rooms. Right now I imagine Robert Palmer is settling into his new home. We feel sorry for ourselves, but we must not feel sorry for him.”
    I know it's terrible, but I can't help think that no one in the Palmer family is going to feel especially sorry for anyone getting his own room in a nice big house.
    “Robert Palmer would not want our sympathy, because he is happy in the presence of Jesus. And that same mighty power is among us today in the person of the Holy Spirit, to bring his love and comfort to us all.”
    We rise for “There Is a Land of Pure Delight” and a rock-solid soprano directly behind me undertakes the singing for our entire section. She comes across particularly loud and clear on the subject of “removing these gloomy doubts that rise,” as if she has never experienced this personally but is happy to explicate the matter for the benefit of the rest of us.
    Finally the benediction. The congregation adds their own murmured and scattered “amens,” the organist lays into some dirge, and we begin to file out. After being crowded with so many people the sanctuary is now warm. Walking directly behind the casket I can briefly see my silhouette reflected in the high gloss finish. Suddenly a wave of anxiety begins in my feet, then travels up to my stomach, through my chest and throat, and bursts out the top of my head.

EIGHTEEN
    I N FRONT OF THE CHURCH WAIT A HEARSE AND BLACK LIMOUSINE with engines struggling against the cold. Steady streams of white smoke spill from their tailpipes and melt into the late winter afternoon air. People going to the cemetery are offered a flag to place on their car. Toward the back of the parking lot Officer Rich and Al help the town's one full-time librarian start her car with jumper cables. Mom has been taking the little kids to story time there every Thursday mornings at ten as far back as I can remember.
    Eric and I are both surprised when