Good Grief

              Is it strange that I have fond childhood memories of running around Kloecker's Funeral Home in Erie, Pennsylvania? 

              Growing up in a very large Roman Catholic German family, it wasn’t unusual to spend time there during my early years.  As the youngest grandchild, I witnessed many Krahe relatives being respectfully honored at Kloecker’s. 

In our family, attending viewings was expected for anyone who shared our last name. All the Krahe’s in Erie are related, going back at least three generations.  One great uncle had twenty – yes, twenty – children.  There were a lot of Krahes in Erie back in the day which meant that I spent many hours at Kloecker’s.

To a child, viewings seemed to last forever.  Before the funeral Mass and burial, several days of visitation occurred at the funeral home.  It was our duty to pay our respects, which meant kneeling at the casket and offering prayers, asking God to welcome our loved ones into Heaven.  Rosaries were recited aloud surrounded by family in what resembled living rooms, softly lit and warmly furnished. 

Each death gave a learning opportunity about the nature of dying and the tenants of our Catholic faith.  Many “why’s” and “what’s” were asked of my parents and relatives during my visits at Kloecker’s.

We were allowed to touch our deceased relatives during the viewings to understand what death felt like. The body was a vessel, not the person.  Death was cold and stiff.  It looked like hands clutching a rosary and a silver crucifix hanging on the white, billowy silk casket lining.  It smelled of old people, and old wood, and an odd scent of cosmetics. 

And it wasn’t scary. 

It was natural, albeit sorrowful, and yet joyous, too.  As Catholics, we believe that life on this earth is only part of the story.  Death is the transition to a new, peaceful, eternal existence with God.

               By the time I was ten, I knew all the hiding spots at Kloecker’s. When my parents were occupied visiting and consoling relatives, my cousins, nieces, nephews and I would take advantage of the situation and go exploring.  Sometimes Mr. Kloecker would find us and corral us with his mere presence back to the fold.  We sheepishly obeyed, knowing it’s wasn’t a playground.  

By the time I graduated from Villa, I toured the embalming room in the basement as a part of a Death and Dying course.  Preparing a body for viewings is a ministry.  For the Kloecker family, it was clearly a spiritual calling performed with love, compassion, and deep respect.

A few years later, I stood by my mother’s casket at Kloecker’s, trying to make sense of everything.  But, being at Kloecker’s, it wasn’t difficult. 

As a Catholic, I accepted my mother’s passing after her long-term illness.  And because Kloecker’s was comforting in a familiar way, it made my grief acceptable.   Kloecker's was an emotionally safe place to mourn, surrounded by my family and friends. 

Grieving was good.  It was healthy.  It was natural. 

Mr. Kloecker knew my parents well.  He offered me some tissues and sat with me in the foyer for a while, expressing condolences and saying some nice things about my family.  His calm, empathic presence was comforting. 

Although Mr. Kloecker passed away before my father, brothers and some other family members– whose viewings were held at Kloecker’s – the Kloecker family continued his ministerial legacy of spiritual and emotional support. 

Handling grief is a delicate matter and Kloecker’s was an important part of the development of my healthy conceptualization about death and dying.  Death is not something to be feared.  Good grief means understanding and accepting that death is the capstone of this corporeal existence.  Good grief also means that feeling sad about the loss of our loved ones is healthy and normal.  Grief is not something to push away but rather something to experience.  It is a testament to love. 

Grief is good.