The Life of a Lightbulb

A hundred years ago, okay twenty, I was asked by my pastor to join a ministry. There were only a few people in this unique ministry. For some reason, he thought I possessed the qualities to be part of it. When I met him, he gave me a book that looked like any other book, except this was a particular book. It was the book used for performing prayer services at wakes, and I was to be a representative from the parish to perform these services.

Hmm. I did not see that coming. I questioned the judgment in choosing me and tried to back my way out of it. Nope, he knew I had what it takes. Really?

While going through the prayer service, he paused at one part. "Now, this is where you say a few words about the deceased.” Whaaat? I have to talk about someone I have never met! And be profound. He went on to say that he had total confidence in me. That made one of us.

The call to perform my first wake service came out of the blue, and I could not be more terrified. I am sorry. I meant thrilled. He was a fifty-two-year-old male. Portuguese. I say Portuguese because it weighs heavily in this story. I had heard of the expression “wailing widow” but had never experienced it myself. Soon, all that was about to change.

I worked on Cape Cod, and the wake was in downtown New Bedford. During the forty-five-minute drive to the wake service, I prayed and pleaded for some sage words. The Holy Spirit came through, but I was not sure about his subject matter. Did he want me to say that? 

And now the bargaining. This is ridiculous. What am I doing? I am so out of my comfort zone, driving around these narrow, one-way streets of New Bedford (paper map in hand). Okay, so here it is. I will never do this again if I do not get a parking spot. If I get a parking spot, that will be my sign to keep doing this ministry.

As I parallel parked in the one vacant spot directly in front of the entrance to the funeral home (deep sigh), my stomach dropped. There was a line out the door and down the street. The pastor had given me this person for my first service because he thought it would be a small wake. He underestimated the Portuguese factor; everyone knows everyone.

Upon entering the funeral home, I heard the cries of the wailing widow. Visibly shaking, I told the funeral director why I was there. All forward motion of the receiving line stopped, and the crowd parted. He brought me to a middle-aged woman seated on a chair, rocking back and forth in her sad, sad song. 

The two women holding her hands saw me first and stiffened. Lifting her tear-streaked face, the widow looked at me with reverence and respect. I was there to help usher her beloved into heaven, and her cries subsided. She knew more about this ministry than I did.

In a day and age when people are living well into their nineties, fifty-two is relatively young. He was a strong, vibrant man, and his early death was a shock. It was this thread that the Holy Spirit had directed me to follow.

I would recite my part of the prayers, pause for their response, and they all chorused their reply. It might have been my first wake service, but not theirs. And now, a few words about the deceased. I started by saying his life ended unexpectedly and much too soon. Then I segued into the life of a lightbulb. Yes, you read that right, a lightbulb. This is from the Holy Spirit, mind you, and it went along these lines:

“Have you ever noticed how sometimes a lightbulb lasts a long time? It might not be bright, but its life is long. And then there is the lightbulb that burns out quickly. This bulb is very bright, but its life is short. It burns out much too soon. You look at this burned-out bulb and wonder why it did not last longer. Surely there was more life left in this bulb. And that is how we feel about the deceased. His life was very bright, but it was much too short. We thought he had more life.”

A few more prayers from the book, and it was over. I paid my respects to the deceased and then said goodbye to the widow. I could feel her drawing the very life from me as she clutched my hands in hers. She pulled me in, and said in a loud whisper, “As you were talking, I saw the lights flicker.” 

Her face was different, open and receiving, and her eyes were brighter. She had seen for herself the presence of God.

It is the present day, and my cousin and I are seated at my dining room table. A heavy mist is falling from an overcast sky. The absence of sunshine darkens the room. The light hanging over the table on. This simple, black chandelier has six candles capped with small, off-white shades. Ironically, we are enjoying a Portuguese meal; kale soup and pops (absolutely delicious rolls) slathered with butter and flan for dessert. After lunch, we're going to one of the repurposed fabric mills in downtown New Bedford to shop for antiques.

We catch up on each other's lives, and I tell her I am sad today. A woman I know had surgery and had been healing well. Then, the night before she was going home, suffered several complications and was placed on life support. Hope for her recovery ebbed and flowed, but she will not be healed this side of heaven. The family is there now to say their goodbyes. 

While I am telling her this story, three things happen in quick succession. My phone alerts me to a text message. The lightbulb in the candle closest to me burns out with a resounding “plink.” My phone, again, sends a text alert.

The light that left the bulb seems to enter our minds simultaneously. In Olympic-worthy synchronization, we look from each other up to the burned-out bulb, and then back again to each other. My mouth is frozen open, and in silence, we wonder, “Is she gone?” 

The second text alert jolts us back to reality. Checking the message confirms our thoughts; my friend is informing me of the passing of this lovely woman. All I can manage to say is, “Eight minutes ago.” In unison, we look back up at this burned-out bulb. The room is not as bright now the light from this one lightbulb is gone. Things somehow feel different. And what about the loud noise calling our attention to the end of this lightbulbs life?

We speak of many things this could mean, but we both know what it is. With finality, my cousin places both palms firmly on the table and proclaims, “This is a sign that this woman made it safely to heaven, lifted by the prayers of so many. It is her way of letting us know.” 

My cousin sees for herself the presence of God. She tells me I need to write about this. 

So I did.