World Made by Hand

Fourteen

I was up until four o’clock in the morning making Shawn’s coffina sorrowful task as I struggled with the idea that I might have provoked him to anger in the hour leading to his death. It was a plain hexagonal pine box, doweled at the joints, with his initials carved on the lid in a small beaded border. The long day’s heat persisted well into the night and the little sleep I found at last was febrile with inchoate dreaming.

Several of us reconvened at Doctor Copeland’s place at nine o’clock in the morning. It was already warm. Jane Ann brought Shawn’s good clothes over. We dressed the corpse and placed it in the coffin and brought Shawn’s remains up to the church on a plain truck wagon from Allison’s livery, which the women had draped in some black bunting. Loren and several others fetched Britney and the little girl up from the Watling house to the church and the funeral got underway. Britney still appeared angry on top of being distraught. Jane Ann seemed to struggle with her briefly in the front pew. It was because Shawn’s coffin was closed, after all, I surmised. Loren and the other elders had decided that his wound was too terrible and would scare the children. They’d asked me to nail it shut and I did.

We townspeople had settled into the pews when all seventythree adult members of the New Faith Church entered behind Brother Jobe. They filled in the remaining seats, and took places standing in the sides and rear when all the seats were occupied. I couldn’t remember when the church had ever been so full. It was strangely thrilling. Curiously, all the New Faith men stood on one side, and the women on the other. Of course, neither Wayne Karp nor any members of his bunch appeared. We in the choir took our places and began the funeral service with the hymn, “Awake, My Soul, and with the Sun,” also called the Doxology.

At the conclusion of the verses, Andrew Pendergast continued playing the hymn softly in the background on piano while Loren came into the pulpit in vestments that he rarely wore except at funerals, and gazed out over the congregation as if to the more distant scene beyond the doors, which were open to keep the air circulating.

“The death of a young man in the early summer of life, seemingly senseless, sudden, and violent, can test our faith. We’ve been tried over and over in recent years by violence and loss, by the crumbling of society’s touchstones, by illness, darkness, hardship, and even the wrath of the earth’s weather, out of our gleeful avarice. We elders remember our former lives and we have a lot to answer for. We regret what our lost riches have cost us, even while we miss them. Shawn’s brief life bridged these two worlds. By the time he came of age, the days of miracles were over. He assumed a role in our little society, and he went manfully into a life of hard work making the ground yield our bread and caring for his family. He was a generous member of our music circle and will be sorely missed there. There is no telling where another destiny might have led Shawn if this tragedy had not intervened. We’ll never know now, because his life was snatched away in a moment of reckless confusion.”

A wave of low murmur flowed through the congregants. More than one person coughed.

“We don’t know where this land and its people are tending. But we hope for an end to our losses, and we pray to be worthy of this beauty-filled, God-made world that we are still grateful to live in, for all our startling difficulties. Would that the Almighty might stop plucking our young away and reap us instead, the long-lived, who disgraced his world and led it down into weeds and ashes. But his design is not revealed to us and his will only known through our acts. Dear God, death reminds us of our true nature. While in your world we are in you. We are your servants. We thank you for your lessons and your mercy. We ask for your blessings upon the spirit of our friend and kinsman, Shawn Watling, as he enters into the light of your grace.”

Loren paused a long moment, then said, “We will continue at the cemetery. All are invited to follow along.”

Much bustling and bumping in the pews concealed the sound of Shawn’s child crying for her father as everybody moved for the doors. We pallbearers carried the coffin back out to the wagon. The people of Union Grove made a long procession behind the wagon to what had been the edge of town until the 1950s. By a strange irony, several of the houses built afterward, which had encroached on the cemetery for years and dishonored it with their graceless vinyl split-level facades, had been among the first disassembled by Wayne Karp and his crew for salvage, so the cemetery had regained some its original character as the place where the town met the rural landscape. And of course no cars were disturbing the peace of the late morning. Loren had gotten a crew together earlier in the morning to dig out the grave and set the straps for lowering the coffin. When we’d gotten the coffin off the wagon, Tom Allison drove the rig off and left the horses tied to the iron fence in the shade.

We in the choir took up our places behind Loren at the head of the grave. The New Faith people ended up in a crowd on one side and the Union Grove people on the other. Loren began the burial with a Psalm, number 100:

When Loren had concluded, Brother Jobe took a step forward from his people, cleared his throat in a demonstrative way, and began reciting another Psalm, number 1:

There was more than a little coughing and chuffing among our townspeople as he concluded.

“Thank you, Brother Jobe,” Loren said, “for that interesting choice.”

“The hundredth there that you spoke. That’s on the cheerful side, given the circumstances. Wouldn’t you think?”

“I thought it might reflect the gratitude of we the living.”

“The Lord is busy judging, and by death do we know it.”

“I suppose so. Now, if you’ll permit us.”

Brother Jobe appeared to think better of saying more and stepped back among his people.

“Lord our God,” Loren said, “you are the source of life. In you we live and move. Keep us in life and death, in your love, and, by you grace, lead us to your kingdom through your Son, Jesus Christ, our Lord.”

“Amen,” the crowd said.

“Almighty God, look on this your servant, lying in great weakness, and comfort him with the promise of life everlasting, given in the resurrection of your Son, Jesus Christ, our Lord.”

“Amen.”

Loren turned and nodded to those of us in the choir behind him. We began the hymn named “Africa” by William Billings. It was not about the continent of Africa per se, or any of the doings within it, but it was a very beautiful hymn of the American Revolutionary period. It was a favorite of ours and one that Shawn himself had sung with us many times. His strong baritone was conspicuously absent.

There were five more verses. When we had concluded, out of nowhere, and much to our surprise, the New Faith people raised their voices in song, all seventy-three of them. The song they commenced was an ominous tune I had heard once or twice, called “The Great Day.” It went like this:

The New Faith people sang the hymn in the shape note manner, all modal harmonies full of terror and dread and nasal harshness. It was an impressive display. Our people seemed cowed by it.

When they had concluded, we immediately sang “Shiloh” another hymn by Billings. As we laid down our last note, they answered with “Mortality” by Isaac Watts:

Loren glanced behind at us in the choir and gave a little shake of the head which we took to mean we should not answer with any more music. In this fraught interval of silence, Brother Jobe spoke out.

“Reverend, I’ve always thought the minor key better suited this sort of occasion,” he said. “I can’t help but remark on your employment of the major keys.”

“We sing to honor the beauty of God’s creation and the joy of the living who remain in it.”

“Funeral is a time of sadness.”

“I don’t think we need to be instructed on how to feel.”

“Didn’t mean any disrespect, Reverend. But D-major always puts me in mind of dancing, not burying the dead.”

Not a few of the other New Faith people seemed to titter at that, though they tried to hide their faces. Some of our people turned and began to walk away from the gravesite. Others gaped across the yawning grave in wonder at the newcomers. Britney glanced pleadingly at Loren.

“If you’ll excuse me, Brother Jobe,” Loren said, “we are burying our dead, and we’re doing it in our way.”

“Sorry. Go ahead.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll just shut up now.”

“If you don’t, Brother Jobe,” Loren said, “I am liable to come over there and bust you in the mouth.”

Brother Jobe recoiled slightly, then lowered his head and did not utter another word. His people likewise looked down.

“Almighty Lord,” Loren said, “we commit the body of Shawn Watling to the peace of the grave. From dust you came, to dust you shall return. Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.”

“Amen.”

At that, we laid Shawn into the comfort of his everlasting resting place and left the burying ground in silence.