Jesus Called

Sometime during the last years of my friend Martha's struggle with breast cancer, she made all of her girlfriends promise her that on the anniversary of her death we were to meet at Calvary Cemetery and pour a vodka martini over her grave. We diligently promised her, "Yes" we would do this.

You see Martha had faced death for so long that she could easily joke about dying. She not only wanted her life to be celebrated, but for her death to be celebrated as well. Sometimes it was hard to laugh at her jokes about dying or accept her shocking bluntness about her diagnosis. Her brothers and sisters faced it with her and could joke at death's expense also. The seven kids had faced the death of their parents together.

Sometimes I had to ask myself "if she can laugh about it why can't you?" Most times it was hard watching her suffer both publicly and privately and I couldn't do it, I couldn't laugh at the off-color jokes no matter how brave the face she put on.

Year after year, she won the costume contest at my annual Halloween party. The first time, bloated by chemo therapy and bald as a cue ball, she simply wore a black graduation gown, painted her entire head white and after putting a light bulb in her mouth was transformed into the Addams Family's Uncle Fester. From the way she laughed and carried on - most of the people at the party did not know she was in the midst of her treatments and living with cancer.

She died a few years ago. It was August. She had progressively gotten sicker from the drugs she was taking and she had run through her nine lives. We knew this was going to happen - it was inevitable wasn't it? But, it was hard when the time came to say goodbye to her.

We laughed and carried on at the wake - drank shots of Jagermeister in her memory and told "Martha" stories that left us all shrieking with laughter. The next day reality set in and we cried and held on to each other at her funeral. She had planned her funeral months, perhaps years before and knowing Martha she would have been extremely proud of the fuss made with all the Pomp and Circumstance that only a sister of a beloved priest could muster at the Cathedral of the Incarnation in downtown Nashville.

When I heard the shovel full of red dirt hit her casket with a muted thud and smaller pieces of dirt scattering, I again was stunned into realizing that she was finally gone, finally free of living life with her cancer. When I made her acquaintance ten years before, she had just celebrated her no-more chemo party. I guess you could say her funeral was her no-more cancer party.

So on the anniversary of her death a year later, on a hot, humid August day we made plans to meet after work at Calvary, the Catholic cemetery in town, and pour the ceremonial martini like we had pledged. She had threatened to come back and haunt us if we broke our promise. Some of us took it us a joke, others took it a bit more seriously.

I arrived before everyone and since the area bordered on the iffy side of town I decided while I was waiting in this enormous expanse of hallowed ground to cruise around and see if I could find where the circle of priests were buried. To no surprise, I found it on top of the highest hill. I got out and walked around the circle pondering the mysticism and majesty of the Da Vinci Code-like symbolism that you could see every where you looked. Dramatic crypts and beautiful statues abounded in every direction. My gaze fell on pewter colored crosses and marble angels that had faded to the color of putty. I couldn't help but notice the little lambs and sweet cherubs on the smallest headstones that adorned the children's section of the cemetery. I paused and said a silent prayer for all who were buried here.

I climbed back in my car and headed back down the wooded, cement filled hill and saw something big and bright pastel yellow flash at the corner of my eye. I stopped and looked out the car window. Nothing. All I could see were trees and drab grey headstones. I put my car in reverse. Coming into my peripheral vision I saw it again.

Oh my gosh! That doesn't spell out Big Momma does it? An enormous flower arrangement spelling out the words "Big Momma" in yellow carnations. Who in the world would do something so tacky at a funeral? Well, obviously in this case it was Big Momma's family.

Thinking of how much Martha would love this I glanced down at my watch and discovered now I was late for my meeting at her graveside. I put the car in drive and headed off down the hill again.

The rest of the gang had arrived, we laughed told "Martha" stories and finally at the end poured that martini over the ground that covered her. "Martha, wherever you are - I hope you are smiling." I thought to myself.

As we disbanded, I mentioned my discovery and piquing my friends interest they asked me to take them to see Big Momma's grave. We drove up the hill and as I was passing the area and pointing out my window the other cars started pulling over and parking. I didn't mean for us to get out!

As we walked towards Big Momma, more arrangements were coming into view. The pastel yellow carnations had lots of colorful company.

Some of the arrangements had fallen over and someone righted one. Someone picked up another until soon all of the arrangements were standing up again. The flowers were still fresh. Big Momma had lots of tribute arrangements and her family had a dark but delightful sense of humor. I mean I grew up in the South and I have never seen anything like this display of adoration and affection.

White carnations were molded into the shape of a cake and the banner read "Angel Food Cake." Another baby blue arrangement formed into a telephone - the dial pad spelled out what could have only been Big Momma's phone number and the banner read: "Jesus called." At the bottom another banner read "Big Momma Answered"!

Oh my gosh, who was this woman?

A tangerine carnation purse was labeled "Shop Till You Drop." The "Gates of Heaven" were represented in mint green carnations as was the off-white carnation chapel that Big Momma and Mr. Big Momma must have gotten married in. Another sweet arrangement in the shape of an angel proudly wore a baby pink halo with the label "Precious Angel."

Someone in our group jokingly, but seriously inquired if our examination of the flowers was a sacrilege. But I think not. Big Momma couldn't help but get our attention. We delighted in the love that was shown to her by these colorful flower arrangements. Her family was obviously able to let go and honor her in death by the way she must have lived her life.

A few days later I searched the online obituaries for any mention of this woman who had an Irish name which I read off the tin temporary plate at the foot of her grave. I wanted to learn more about her. I hadn't missed the irony of her heritage because Martha was Irish also. I couldn't find anything that would tell me how old she was, when she was born, how many children and grandchildren she might have had or anything about this person who had to have a fabulous sense of humor. I just knew one thing - she was loved.

So was Martha, and I realized that although they were strangers they had a lot in common. It is my hope that somewhere in heaven they were up there together laughing at us. I was proud that we kept our promise to her because I could finally understand why Martha wanted us to remember her in death by the way she lived her life - joking, her gang of girlfriends together, raising a glass in her honor and reminding us that when "Jesus Calls" it's not supposed to be sad - I learned from Martha and Big Momma that it's meant to be quite a joyous occasion.