I recently attended two funerals.

One was a cold, rainy March afternoon, and the other was a warm, sunny, wide blue-sky March afternoon, March being what it is. One procession was headed by a shiny pink casket with daughters, grandchildren, and relatives and friends following. On the curving streets of an upscale suburb, the town she had raised her children in, and watched grandchildren grow. She fought cancer and damn near won, putting the beast off for many decades. She survived a betrayal and divorce, and never looked back. She strode, head high, shoulder back, into a life where she did what she wanted when she wanted to do it. Her funeral was the same. No rituals, no incense, no sermon. Only a tear-filled tribute from her daughters and grandchildren, watched and mourned by those who loved her the very most.

She was a woman who lived and loved fiercely. She was admired and adored and a little bit feared. The end of her life came quickly, after a final battle with cancer, but the end still startled most who considered her indomitable.

(The same way that the death of Chuck Norris, only a few weeks later, felt similarly improbable; too great a fight, and one Death preferred to defer.)

The second procession was led by remains in an urn. A line of strangers gathered to provide the company and ritual to put the soldier to rest, alongside hundreds of others who also served the nation. He was led to the service by a trail of motorcycles, emblazoned with American flags, leather vests, and veteran patches. The people who sat and listened to the Army chaplain talk about life and the afterlife, ancient words in a modern setting, they came in ones and twos, some with insignia of military service, many without. I was one of the mourners, who came to pay a final tribute to a man we didn’t know in life. But we all decided to spend our afternoon walking with him into eternity because no one should do that alone.

(According to the county investigator who said he was “honored” to escort the remains to the service, there was a son, who had been contacted, but who never came forward. So we won’t concern ourselves with family absences. It is not our story to tell.)

Every month, there is a service that lays to rest a veteran who is considered “Unaccompanied”, but though they may not have family present, they do not go alone.

First there is a three-volley salute by a firing party, and then a bugler plays Taps. All veterans and current military present salute, while the other mourners hold their hands over their hearts. The Honor Guard takes the American Flag that has been placed over the remains, and with crisp and solemn attention, fold the flag and present it to a mourner. Tears are shed. Prayers and blessings accompany this soldier (sailor, marine, airman, coast guard…) They are not alone.

At both of these services, ancient folkways are present- in the mourners following the casket to the grave, an echo the ancient Romans. The cars with lit headlights like the flames that would entice the spirit of the dead towards the place where they would lay- away from the places of the living. And in the stone where names are carved to be read by the centuries and ancestors to come; reflections of ancient columbarium and mausoleum where the names of yesterday remain written.

I invite you to attend a funeral of someone you didn’t know in life. It is a good reminder of the ancient command: momento mori– remember death, remember you will die. It’s a good poke in the side when maybe you have forgotten how lucky you are to be able to breath in fresh air and watch clouds float by. That we have but minutes on this planet in the stretch of time, and the ancestors are all around us, exhorting us to both remember them, and while we can, to live.