“There is an appointed time for everything . . . a time to weep, and a time to laugh, a time to mourn, and a time to dance . . .” Ecclesiastes 3:1,4

Today, as I make plans to attend yet another wake for a friend, I do what most of us do in times like this—remember what was.

The meeting of friends and family at the funeral parlor, the familiar routine of the wake service and Mass, the images and symbols of the cemetery are certain to evoke memories of loved ones lost and grief experienced.

For me, at this moment, the prospect has brought to mind the burial of my very dear uncle so many years ago, someone much loved and cherished—and missed.

That morning, as we stood silently by the grave side, waiting for the priest to begin the last prayers, I noticed a small child toying with the baskets of flowers that led to the canvas tent.

The bright pinks and purples of her dainty clothes were in stark contrast to the somber hues of the adults nearby.

In a world of her own, as if unaware of the soft drizzle of fall rain or what was taking place around her, she hummed a quiet tune and touched the silken pedals of fresh cut roses.

Though my heart ached at the painful thought of my dear Uncle Stan being laid to rest, I had to smile at the little girl who reminded me that life goes on.

Then I was the grieving niece, the anguished daughter, having recently lost both parents. At some tomorrow I will be the deceased, as will we all.

While death, for most of us, is a thought we try to push aside and a fate we try to avoid as long as possible, it is not a bad thing to live life with an awareness that our days are numbered. It is a powerful reminder to live and love fully.

As the prayers concluded that morning, I followed the child’s lead and pulled several sweet-smelling flowers from the baskets, walking timidly around neighboring graves, trying to undo the familiar tightening in my throat as I came upon the graves of my parents.

A heavy sigh escaped my lips as I placed the flowers across the dark, moist earth that seemed to resist the spreading grass. Behind me my cousins, after saying their final goodbyes to their devoted father, brought baskets of flowers to my parents’ graves.

I was touched and thought about how much I loved my family.

The smile that accompanied their gesture turned to laughter as someone remarked that, even after a year, there was no grass growing on my mother’s grave, remembering her oft quoted desire to rest in a mausoleum.

Not your ordinary “drawer in a wall” mausoleum, mind you, where she would share space with other families’ loved ones, but a private mausoleum of grandiose proportions! “She’s not going to let the grass grow over HER!” someone quipped, jokingly.

“I hope my father doesn’t have to hear about it for all eternity,” I had chuckled, remembering the good-natured, quick-witted darts that would often fly between them.

Reflecting on the number of family members who were “resting” nearby, my cousins and I had considered the possibility of a family picnic.

The remembering is so often painful, especially when we are alone. But shared with people who knew our loved ones or who love us in our pain, it can be powerfully healing.

Now, as I remember times past with my parents, I continue to remember a favorite uncle who made me laugh, who beat us to Lyons Lake on summer Saturdays to cook breakfast over an open grill, who served us Syrian bread and olives when we visited after church, whose nonchalant approach to driving evoked spontaneous prayer from anyone who drove with him, who opened his heart and his home to everyone and who loved his children and grandchildren with unabashed openness.

Sitting here today, as my father’s birthday nears, another thought enters my mind. I remember vividly my cousin’s wedding when the D.J. played the Sister Sledge song, “We Are Family.”

“Get up everybody and sing!” reverberated through the reception hall. And we did, all of us, together.

We sang together, as we laugh together, cry together and grieve together.

There is a time to sing—and to remember.