The Life of a Lightbulb

A hundred years ago, okay twenty, I was asked by my pastor to join a ministry. For some reason he thought I possessed the qualities to be part of this unique ministry. I was to represent the parish at wakes and lead the prayer service. Hmm. I did not see that coming. I questioned his judgment and tried to back my way out of it. Nope, he knew I had what it takes. 

Going through the prayer service, he pointed out where I was to say something about the deceased.” Whaaat? I have to talk about someone I have never met! And be profound. He said he had total confidence in me. That made one of us.

Terrified, my hand was shaking as I held the phone, listening to the details about my first wake service.  He was a fifty-two-year-old Portuguese male and his service was in the city, that’s all I got. I prayed and pleaded for some sage words and the Holy Spirit answered my plea, but I questioned his subject matter. Did He really 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 crowded one-way city streets (paper map in hand). Okay, so here it is - if I don’t get a parking spot, I will never do this again. If I get a parking spot, that will be my sign to keep doing this ministry. Parallel parking in the only vacant spot, directly in front of the entrance (deep sigh), my stomach dropped. There was a line out the door and down the street.

I heard the cries of the wailing widow as I entered the funeral home. Pale, and visibly shaking, I told the funeral director why I was there. All forward motion of the receiving line stopped, and when the crowd parted I saw the source of the wailing. The widow, a middle-aged woman, sat in a plush upholstered chair, rocking back and forth in her sad, sad song. Lifting her tear-streaked face, she looked at me with reverence and respect. I was there to help usher her beloved into heaven, and her cries subsided.

He was a strong, vibrant man, and his early death was a shock. It was this thread that the Holy Spirit guided me to follow. After a few prayers it was time for words about the deceased. Saying his life ended unexpectedly and much too soon, I segued into the life of a lightbulb. Yes, a lightbulb. This was inspired, and it went along these lines:

“Have you ever noticed how some lightbulbs lasts a long time? They may be dull, but their life is long. Then, sometimes a lightbulb is bright, but burns out quickly. It’s life is short and burns out much too soon. Looking at this burned-out bulb you wonder why it didn’t 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 and ended too soon. We thought he had more life.”

I paid my respects to the deceased and said goodbye to the widow. I could feel her drawing 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.

Now, my cousin and I are seated at my dining room table, catching up on each other’s lives. I tell her I am sad, an acquaintance had surgery and was healing well, but she suffered several complications and is 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.

A heavy mist is falling from an overcast sky and the darkness of the room matches my words. The light hanging over the table is on, but it’s struggling to light the room. This simple, black chandelier has six candles capped with small, off-white shades.

While I am telling her this story, two things happen in quick succession. My phone alerts me to a text message and the lightbulb in the candle closest to me burns out with a resounding “plink.” 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 if she is gone.

A second text alert jolts us back to reality. Checking the message confirms our thoughts; a 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 even darker now the light from this one lightbulb is gone. Things somehow feel different.

We speak of many things this could mean, but we both know what it is. With finality, my cousin straightens, places both hands 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.