Blog
“The Lunch Lady”
Categories: M. W. Bassford, Meditations
One of the best-attended funerals I’ve ever preached was for a school lunch lady. Her name was Marlene Norris. She was a faithful member of the church in Joliet, with which I was working at the time, along with her husband and three of her children. As is the custom in those parts, they asked me to offer the eulogy.
I arrived at the funeral home early and noticed when I went into the parlor that half the chairs had been removed. Only 40 or 50 remained. Nobody was expecting a big turnout.
This didn’t surprise me. I’d known and been friendly with Marlene ever since my arrival in the area, but she wasn’t a standout in the congregation. She attended regularly, but she didn’t speak up in Bible class, teach children’s classes, or sing so that I could hear her voice. If I remembered her for anything, it was for faithfully updating me on her various ailments every time I greeted her. To the extent that there is such a thing as an ordinary saint, she was it.
The family was already there, both those who were members in good standing and those who weren’t. I knew them all. I also knew the funeral-attenders from the congregation who were beginning to arrive. You know the type: those staunch older Christians who can be relied upon to show up for absolutely everything, including the funerals of members of the congregation, their relatives, and even notable brethren from surrounding congregations. They offer one of the little-recognized fringe benefits of being a child of God—the knowledge that no matter who dies, you won’t have to grieve alone.
However, a third group also began to trickle in, a group of people I did not know. They weren’t family. Frequently, they had the wrong skin color to be family. They weren’t funeral-attenders either. They weren’t nicely dressed, utterly respectable, utterly at ease. They didn’t look like they belonged. They sure thought they belonged, though.
There were a lot of them, too. They filled the available seating, so the funeral-home staff brought back a row of chairs. Soon it was filled with people, then another row, then another row.
The process continued even after the funeral service began. These weren’t people who had ever known the stern duty of appearing punctually at The Next Appointed Time. Being 10 or 15 minutes late was nothing to them, but Marlene Norris was something.
By the time the last amen was said, the room was full of chairs, and the chairs were full of people. If I remember rightly, there were even folks standing because there were no more seats to be found. I’ve never seen anything like it.
The only explanation I can offer is the one in Marlene’s obituary. It reads, “No one could ever walk in her home and not eat. She will be remembered for her giving and caring spirit, always putting everyone else’s needs before her own.” That sounds like an obituary commonplace, right up there with “She loved her family,” and “She loved to travel.” All the dead are generous and compassionate in their obituaries.
In Marlene’s case, though, I think the obituary spoke truth. I think there were students at Gompers Junior High School for whom Marlene the lunch lady was the only kind voice in their lives. I think there were people who came to her kitchen at home because it was the only place on the planet where they could find warmth and food and love.
I’m guessing about all this because Marlene never mentioned any of it to me, even while she was giving me every detail about her ingrown eyelashes. I don’t think she thought about it much. Compassion was simply the water in which she swam. However, at the end of her days, the recipients of her kindness rose up and bore witness.
Such is greatness in the kingdom of heaven.
