Mom's Last Laugh 
By Robin Lee Shope            Submitted by Jane Etz 

Consumed by my loss, I didn't notice the hardness of the pew where I 
sat.  I was at the funeral of my dearest friend - my mother.  She 
finally had lost her long battle with cancer.  The hurt was so intense; 
I found it hard to breathe at times.  Always supportive, Mother clapped 
loudest at my school plays, held a box of tissues while listening to my 
first heartbreak, comforted me when my father died, encouraged me in 
college, and prayed for me my entire life.  When Mother's illness was 
diagnosed, my sister had a new baby and my brother had recently married 
his childhood sweetheart, so it fell to me,     the 
twenty-seven-year-old middle child without entanglements, to take care 
of her.  I counted it as an honor.  "What now, Lord?" I asked, sitting 
in the church.  My life stretched out before me as an empty abyss.  My 
brother sat stoically with his face toward the cross while clutching his 
wife's hand.  My sister sat slumped against her husband's shoulder, his 
arms around her as she cradled their child.  All so deeply grieving, 
they didn't seem to notice that I sat alone.  My place had been with our 
mother, preparing her meals, helping her walk, taking her to the doctor, 
seeing to her medication, reading the Bible together.  Now she was with 
the Lord.  My work was finished, and I was alone.  I heard a door open 
and slam shut at the back of the church.  Quick          footsteps 
hurried along the carpeted floor.  An exasperated young man looked 
around briefly and then sat next to me.  He folded his hands and placed 
them on his lap.  His eyes were brimming with tears.  He began to 
sniffle.  "I'm sorry I'm late," he explained, though no explanation was 
necessary.  After several eulogies, he leaned over and commented, "Why 
do they keep calling Mary by the name of 'Margaret'?"  "Because Margaret 
was her name.  Never Mary.  No one called her 'Mary'," I whispered.  I 
wondered why this person couldn't have sat on the other side of the 
church.  He kept interrupting my grieving with his tears and fidgeting. 
Who was this stranger anyway?  No, that isn't correct," he insisted, as 
several people glanced over at us whispering.  "Her name is Mary, Mary 
Peters."   "That isn't whose funeral this is."  "Isn't this the Lutheran 
church?"  "No, the Lutheran church is across the street."  "Oh."  "I 
believe you're at the wrong funeral, sir."  The solemn nature of the 
occasion mixed with the realization of the man's mistake bubbled up 
inside me and erupted as laughter.  I cupped my hands over my face, 
hoping the noise would be interpreted as sobs.  The creaking pew gave me 
away.  Sharp looks from other mourners only  made the situation seem 
more hilarious.  I peeked at the bewildered, misguided man seated beside 
me.  He was laughing, too, as he glanced around; deciding it was too 
late for an uneventful exit.  I imagined Mother laughing.  At the final 
"Amen," we darted out a door and into the parking lot. "I do believe 
we'll be the talk of the town," he smiled.  He said his name     was 
Rick and since he had missed his aunt's funeral, he asked me to join him 
for a cup of coffee.  That afternoon began a lifelong journey for me 
with this man, who attended the wrong funeral, but was in the right 
place.  A year after our meeting, we were married at a country church 
where he was the assistant pastor.  This time we both arrived at the 
same church, right on time. 
 

In my time of sorrow, God gave me laughter.  In place of loneliness, God 
gave me love.  This past June we celebrated our twenty-second wedding 
anniversary.  Whenever anyone asks us how we met, Rick tells them, "Her 
mother and my Aunt Mary introduced us, and it's truly a match made in 
heaven."