A Stranger’s Funeral

 I opened my grandma‘s happiness file and read the words she’d written on an index card not long before she died. “If you can be anything to anyone, be kind.”

…

 

A man I initially met online came to our yard sale, and I felt somewhat self-conscious. I was still recovering from a recent hospital stay and feeling quite under the weather from various medications and steroids. Plus, I know I look different in person than I do on the computer—especially how I walk. But I told myself to stop worrying about such trivial, superficial things. And as soon as I let my insecurities go, Mike, the man, and I had the most powerful conversation. He even shared that one of his best friends recently died from a heart attack. “It was so sudden,” he admitted, beyond devastated.

I’m not sure why, but I felt it on my heart to offer to play the violin for the funeral service. “This would just give me something positive to do with my time. And something good to look forward to.”

“Really?” he asked. “You really want to do this?”

I nodded.

“Okay. I’ll talk to the family and get back to you.”

I found out later that the guitarist they’d wanted to hire couldn’t come. So, they had me come to the cemetery to play as people visited before and after the graveside service.

It’s always strange, attending funerals when you’ve never met the person. I’ve done this quite often because I’ve played at so many funerals. But you really do get a glimpse of who the deceased was and how much they were loved. It’s quite humbling actually. 

But this service was different from any other one I’ve attended. They melded both Catholic and LDS beliefs, having a bishop and a priest, tag-team the service and add various elements from both religions. 

At one point, the priest got up and asked for people to yell out one word that described the man. 

“Friend,” someone said.

“Caring,” a couple of people said at the same time.

“Selfless.”

And for about a minute, people continued, saying the most wonderful words about this man I’ve never met. 

I held my violin at my side and nestled down into the chair under a blue canopy. I could hardly wait to play my violin again because I could feel the power of emotion building in my soul. Sometimes it seems like the only way to get my feelings out is on the fingerboard of a fiddle.

“He was an incredible man,” the priest said. “Did you notice how many similar words were used?” He paused, studying the crowd. “I really want you to think about this today: Which words would describe YOU? You are still alive. You’re still living. Who do you want to be to the people in your life?”

After he finished speaking, I played a couple of songs as people reminisced about the good times with their brother, son, father, cousin, and friend….

I finally went and found the man who’d come to my yard sale. I wished him well, and thanked him for setting the entire thing up. 

“I needed to hear that message today,” I said. “That was powerful.”

As I drove home, I mulled over all the words I want to emulate. That’s when I thought again about my grandma and the card from her happiness file: “If you can be anything to anyone, be kind.”

It sounds so simple, but that's part of its beautiful dichotomy. Being kind can take immense strength. It can stop wars, change lives, alter everything in its path… Being truly kind is far more impactful than one might understand,  but it has a ripple effect that brings growth and joy.

So, I played at a stranger’s funeral, learned about a man days after his death, and had an epiphany about kindness. All in all, I think it was a pretty beautiful day.

A Positive What-If

This week wasn’t my finest… I yelled at someone I love. Not a small blip where I explained in a heated—yet somewhat level—tone. Nope. I yelled. Emotionally charged. Probably sounding ridiculous as I cried about fate and cancer, about death and friendship. And then I talked about people staying in my life because of pity and how I hate not knowing why they're still around. "Is it pity? Or love?" I'd raised my voice then, and I'm sure the vein in my forehead bulged as I shared one of my most embarrassing fears. "I have been reduced to a freakin’ charity case. Wouldn't that embarrass YOU?"

"Well, yes… But no." And the placating look on my friend's face—as she told me her real feelings about this entire situation—THAT broke my heart. 

Everything felt like too much. I'd been too tired to hang out with her, and she'd shown up with a bowl of soup and wanted to talk for over an hour. I didn't need her soup or her pity. In fact, I'd stayed up to talk with her because that was polite. After hearing that she does ‘feel bad’ for me, my pride prickled. “I don't need this." I handed the soup back to her. "Can you please head out?”

"I'm not leaving. Not like this."

I could've fallen, beyond exhausted from fighting cancer and dealing with side effects from treatments. I wanted to escape this claustrophobic situation that felt like it suddenly couldn't get worse. "Please just go." I said. "If you're here out of obligation or because you need to feel better about yourself…" I immediately wished I'd never said it that way.

We remained quiet, staring at one another. Stunned.

"Oh, my gosh. I'm sorry." I said, sitting down and placing shaky hands up to my face. She'd tried doing something nice, and I'd flipped out for virtually no reason. Yes, she's been coming over a lot and stayed a long time, but it’s been in an effort to help. “I” was the person who hadn't set boundaries and told her I didn't need food and that these visits were getting a bit taxing.

She took a small step back. “You’re going through a lot. And I can see where you're coming from on this. I really can. But what you said…”

“I'm so sorry.” I mouthed.

“I can't imagine what this journey is like for you. But, Elisa,” she whispered, "you don't know what it’s like for the people who care about you.” Tears formed in her eyes, and my jaw slackened with shock because this woman doesn't cry. She never even seems sad. I had no idea she'd even been struggling with any of this. “It's scary seeing someone who's sick. It reminds me that I will die..."

Without anything being resolved, she finally left. And as I turned on my heated blanket and wished I could block out the world, I couldn't quiet my mind. I hated myself for this sudden anger and the way I projected fears onto an altruistic friend.

Analyzing my initial accusations and reactions, I grew frustrated that my thoughts always turn to death: What if I died and this was the last conversation she'd remember having with me? What if she's had too much of this situation—and of me—and she stops being my friend? What if...

I told her about this the next time we spoke. “I basically accused you of being my friend out of pity. Because you wanted to help someone. I am so sorry. It was a horrific thing to say—especially to someone who's been so thoughtful.”

“You're allowed to be human, Elisa. And so am I." She sighed. "I'm not here out of pity. Believe it or not, I like hanging out with you."

After a moment, I took a deep breath. "If I would've died, and that was our last conversation... I hate how my thoughts always circle back to death. But what a horrendous way to leave things."

“I think about stuff like that too." She paused. "On the way home yesterday, I worried about getting in a car accident. I didn't want that to be our last conversation either.” She sniffled, and I realized that our friendship had grown leaps and bounds in a very short period of time.

"We both think about the ‘what ifs’ a lot, but they seem to be more on the negative side. Can you make a pact with me?” she asked, her voice becoming a bit lighter.

“Sure."

“Maybe it’s time we entertain the positive ‘what-ifs’ too. What if our friendship keeps getting even better because of this? What if we have decades of meaningful conversations? And, Elisa, what if every time we think about something we're scared about, we both counter it with a ‘what-if’ that involves hope?!”

I smiled, more grateful for her than she'll ever know. “What if... this positively changes our outlook on… everything?!” 

So we agreed. 

And even after I got into bed that night, I couldn't help smiling about of the things I'd found to be hopeful about over the course of that day. Each time I worried—and it happened a lot—I countered fears with positive "what-ifs.” And it really had changed my perspective in the most meaningful way. 

So, an argument escalated, lost steam, turned into an apology, and brought growth. It was a crazy week, but one that altered how I look at the future and really appreciate the present.

Looking Back to Appreciate

"I shied away from saying too much," Ralph explained. "It would've been foolish to give advice when I lacked understanding about your situation." He peered at the crows perching poetically on a fallen tree. "We could talk about our deaths from here until the time comes, but that won't change anything. It'll happen regardless—with whatever might be after this."

I nodded. Ralph is 90 years old, and I appreciate how he delivers honesty with a hint of empathy that makes any truth more palatable.

"And even though we're not in the same situation..." He paused as if shepherding his thoughts. "I can't fathom fighting cancer at the age of 42. But I do know what fighting cancer is like now, at least for myself."

When Ralph's son called me in November, I shook as I answered the phone. I knew something was wrong. "They found a brain tumor," Todd had said. "My dad wanted you to know."

Ralph stayed in the hospital for weeks upon weeks. Surgeons removed the brain tumor, and despite numerous setbacks, Ralph carried on, brave... humor intact. We brought a Thanksgiving dinner to him and his son—and despite their struggles and hardships, they continually asked how we were doing.

"Us?" I said. "We're just worried about you." The day before, oncologists had told Ralph that although they could lengthen his life with treatments, he would eventually die from brain cancer. And yet, he still wanted to ask about everyone else, eagerly listening to Indy share stories about her boyfriend before Trey answered questions about his apprenticeship.

I watched Ralph's eyes light with wonder while he selflessly listened to the kids, and tears filled my eyes. Ralph is pretty incredible.

One of the crows hopped onto the ground by Ralph's feet and brought me back to the moment: May of 2025. "Elisa," Ralph said, "doctors have told both of us that we will eventually die from cancer. I couldn't tell you this before because I couldn't possibly understand... But the best thing we can do is exercise acceptance."

I sighed. The two toughest words—for me—in the English language are patience and acceptance. But as I really mulled his words, I knew Ralph was right.

"It's terminal, Elisa. Still, we shouldn't let that rob us of today. We need to use the truth as a tool, a weapon to help us appreciate even the hard times. Even if things have changed for both of us." 

"Do you have any regrets?" I finally asked. 

"I think everyone does. If they're honest with themselves."

"Does that ever change how you're living in the present?" I wondered what he might say since he's so forthcoming.

"When I look back, sure, it could get easy to laser in on what I could've done differently, but then I look at the big picture. I've lived a good life. I have. So, I focus on those things and try to make my time now the best possible by doing things like this."

"Talking with a friend and watching crows?" I asked.

"Exactly."

After I got home, I decided to think about the incredible life I've led and am still living. I numbered a notebook from 1–84 and wrote two things for each year of my life, representing time well lived. The list includes moments like "remember hearing the violin for the first time," "got to meet all of my babies," "married my dream man," and "moved to Idaho." Then, I tried to find little items around the house that would remind me of the very best memories from my life.

"Mama?" Indy bounded into my room. "You seem so happy today. What are you up to?" 

I'd been placing items in a glass box. "You know Grandma Stilson's happiness file?" I asked, and she nodded. My grandma filled a recipe box with little sayings to cheer her up when she felt sad. "I guess I'm making a happiness box. These things remind me of how fortunate I am."

Indy sat by me and beamed. "There's a picture of me!" she said.

"Of course there is." And we giggled together.

"Oh! These are gorgeous. What are these?" She held two ceramic earrings to the light, and little rainbows shot onto the wall behind her.

"Before I saw Mike at the altar on our wedding day, my maid of honor gave me the most beautiful box from him." Indy passed me one of the earrings, and I cradled it. "Inside were these handcrafted earrings and a matching necklace. Mike had no idea what my dress looked like or that the necklace was the perfect length with the bodice. But that moment, combined with a million other tiny things, made me so grateful I'd even met such an exceptional man." I returned the earring to Indy and watched her place it back in the box. "I could hardly believe he was marrying me. I figured if you kids could grow up to be like anyone, I'd want you to be like Mike. And all of you are. You're kind and good. You're... exceptional."

"That was the neatest day," Indy said. She was only 5 when I married Mike, but even then, she'd been so excited to have him as a permanent part of our lives. When she met him, she couldn't say "Mike Magagna," so she started calling him "My 'agagna" and the name has stuck ever since.

Indy and I poured over the items in the box; she asked questions, and I answered.

"These stories are so awesome, Mama. What made you want to do this today anyway?"

"Ralph," I said. "He told me something about acceptance. It was tough to hear at first, but I see now how right he was. Life can be filled with hard moments, but the good outweighs the bad. I want to focus on that when I think about the past and when I'm busy trying to appreciate the present.

"Me too," she said. And later that evening, after I hugged Indy goodnight, I noticed a little box she'd placed on her dresser. Inside were trinkets I'd given her over the years.

So, as I drifted to sleep that night, I didn't worry about death or regret, terminal illness, or losing friends too soon. Instead, I focused on the good things: the fact that I'm alive and still able to appreciate so many incredible moments, like watching crows with Ralph, reminiscing with Indy, or continuing to fill my very own happiness box with reminders of joy.

 The earrings Mike gave to me on our wedding day :)