Fear and self-loathing at a funeral

I have a bad habit of not thinking things through. I usually blame it on my childhood, even though I can’t point to anything specific. After all, the 1970s was when all those synapses and neurons and bad habits started forming.

Come on. How else do you explain The Brady Bunch?

Example of this habit: Back in the mid-90s, Husband and I visited Cape Cod. Planning vacations is just about my favorite thing to do. Booking the rooms, tours, outings, and bragging about all the great deals only adds to the excitement. Our Cape Cod vacation included whale watches, lounging on the beach, and visiting lighthouses. The last day, however, was devoted to something entirely different.

“We need directions,” I said to the concierge that morning. “Where is the bridge that will take us to Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard?”

If you, dear reader, are from New England, or have ever been to the area, you are probably making the same face the concierge made that day.

For the uninitiated, there is no such thing as a bridge to Nantucket. Or Martha’s Vineyard. These islands are only accessible by boat – and never on the same day.

Do you see what I mean? That was me. Not thinking things through.

This past week, our rental lease was up and since we didn’t want to buy, Husband and I packed our things and moved out. We will enjoy our vacation in Boston this month and look for a new place when we return. I grabbed some of the items we couldn’t live without – shorts, t-shirts, sneakers, sandals, and bathing suits. Husband grabbed his work clothes and the flat-screen television. Everything else went into storage.

Around that same time, a terrible tragedy occurred in Tampa. Two police officers, Jeffrey Kocab and David Curtis, were shot and killed during a routine traffic stop. When police officers are murdered in my town, my family attends their funerals. These are crowded affairs and in the past, my children and I have had to stand outside and listen to the ceremony over loudspeakers, with hundreds of other observers, under a blazing sun.

Keep that in mind. And try not to judge me.

This time, and it feels beyond horrific to have to use that term, someone decided that the Kocab and Curtis funerals should be held at a mega-church in northern, mostly rural, Hillsborough County. At first, this scared your favorite Jewish blogger. But in the end, I decided it didn’t matter where they held the ceremony, we were still going. My boys understand the importance of honoring these brave men who died while protecting and defending us. We got dressed early that morning and drove up to Idlewild Baptist Church.

“I thought you got hate mail from these people,” Youngest said, as we pulled into the parking lot.

“That was years ago.” I thought about how I once blamed Baptists for the whole Mandy Moore phenomenon. “Surely they’ve forgiven me by now.”

We parked among dozens of police cars, from all over the state, and my eyes grew teary explaining to my children why we must always show respect and admiration for police officers. Then my stomach dropped as I looked around at all the people filing into the church.

“Where is the lawn crowd?” I asked out loud.

Turns out, Idlewild is bigger than a small airport. The lobby alone could hold three or four Toby Keith concerts at the same time. And walking from the parking lot to the main entrance is a lot like a marathon, complete with rest areas, water stops, and encouraging bystanders. But what really alarmed me? Everyone was walking inside, everyone, dressed in dark suits and black dresses.

You know, like grown-ups about to attend a funeral.

My ugly ass looked about ready to attend a barbecue.

I quickly glanced at my children.

They looked ridiculous, too.

Oldest had on a Clearwater Beach t-shirt and flip-flops. Youngest wore a Nike shirt, shorts, and sneakers. At least he matched. I glanced down at myself and almost died.

Really Kate? Birkenstocks?

I froze in front of the giant cross and heard the organ music inside competing with noises coming from my stomach. I couldn’t move. Not since that day I wore Doc Martens to my college graduation did I feel so totally and completely and embarrassingly out of place.

But what could we do? Our fancy clothes were in storage and we couldn’t *not* go.

I grabbed each child’s hand, as if they offered some sort of protection, and walked into the church. I thought they were oblivious to my humiliation until Oldest glanced at the peace-sign necklace around my neck and mumbled, “This isn’t a Grateful Dead concert, Mom.”

Thankful that Husband had to work and none of my friends were allowed into a house of worship, we sat in the back and avoided eye contact with all the respectable human beings.

The ceremony was undeniably beautiful. Each officer had friends who shared such lovely, funny, and touching stories. Kocab and Curtis were achingly real, human, and brave men whose absence will be felt for ages. As I looked around the auditorium, the outpouring of love and support was inspiring. You’d think a funeral with 4,000 people wouldn’t be intimate. But you’d be wrong.

I sat in amazed and humbled silence at the magnitude of their sacrifice and periodically encouraged my children to contemplate the real meaning of bravery and service to our community.

In the end, we left the funeral feeling sorrow for the families, yet gratitude for the kind of people who put their lives on the line for us every day. Walking to our car, I prayed for Officers Kocab and Curtis and hoped that they rest peacefully, their legacy living on in each of us.

I wondered if somehow, some way, they could see all their friends and neighbors, coworkers and loved ones, honoring the memory of such wonderful young men. I glanced up at the sky and sighed. If they were indeed looking down on us, I hoped they’d see this middle-aged hippie with two beach bums in tow and smile.

Because, really, we couldn’t *not* go.