Bearing the Pall...

For so many years I never really knew what the origin of the term pall-bearer was.  What exactly was a pall?  I'd heard the phrase "cast a pall over....", usually associated with a sense of foreboding.  But to my knowledge, pall-bearers carried caskets out of the church and into the cemetery.  The "pall" is typically, though seldom used, a flag or other ceremonial fabric covering placed over the casket.  Therefore, those carrying the casket are bearing the pall...pall-bearers.

Since my youth, there have been several occasions where I've been asked to be a pall-bearer, typically for relative.  It may be seen as a duty, but to me it is a high honor for a family to ask that you gently escort their beloved to their place of rest.

This week, though, the honor of the title took on new meaning to me.  The pall was cast on Wednesday afternoon, just before four in the afternoon when my phone rang.  One of Therapist's aunts was calling - unusual, but not unheard of.  This was not to be a social call.  Therapist's dad had been found unresponsive in his garden, and in the aunt's words, "was gone".  She said she'd called me because I'd know what to do to notify Therapist.  The truth is, I had no idea what to do.  Years of comforting the sick and injured, hundreds of hours of training, none of those things had taught me how to do this.  I walked across the house to find my wife.  As I drew my hand to knock on the door where she would be found, I had no idea what words I would say.  A thin door stood between her and the worst news...

We would quickly gather the family at Therapist's parents as the pall settled around them.  Two of our boys were out of state, we had to make plans to get them home soon.  So many things must happen: arrangements, plans, flowers, visitations, food, finding room for people to sleep...chaos with no hint of order.

Therapist's parents had taken me and Mini-Me into their family with open arms, full of grace.  We weren't strangers, we were given family status without reservation.  Mini-Me quickly gained Mr. Armstrong's admiration and respect.  Mr. Armstrong had taught and preached for many years, gaining the respect and admiration of thousands of students and parishioners through the years.  Yet he gave us his respect and admiration.  His gentle manner and unassuming demeanor was reminiscent of some of my relatives, and we connected quickly.

I wanted to support my wife this week.  I just wanted to be there for her, to know that she had someone to fall onto when she needed to.  I wanted to be just at arm's-length away, to give her room to grieve but at the same time be close enough to catch her if she fell. 

It was Therapist's mother that surprised me though, asking if I would be a pall-bearer.  Me?  I'm the new guy in the family!  I'd be walking alongside men that had known Mr. Armstrong for decades; I'd only known him for a couple of years.  Surely there must be someone else.

Bearing the pall is more than a few steps in a cemetery.  You're asked to give a final aid to one who can no longer carry himself; to serve one who can no longer serve.  Bearing the pall is a silent ministry to the closest of family, attempting to lift for a time some of their burden.  Mr. Armstrong would have likely shunned physical support in life, preferring to not be a burden to those closest to him.  It was indeed a solemn honor to bear the pall for him and his family.  I only hope that I can continue to serve his daughter in an honorable way.