Funeral at Carmel-by-the-Sea

We entered the Carmel Mission and were told that all of it was open to the public, except the chapel, which was closed for another forty-five minutes due to a funeral. That immediately piqued my curiosity and as I entered the little courtyard I gravitated toward the heavy wooden doors of the chapel. 

One door was propped open, but there was a sign indicating a private service: Do not enter. I stood back and observed from a distance. My view inside was obscured at best, but I could sense a full congregation and could see all the way to the front at the altarpiece. 

I wondered for whom this funeral might be. Was it a priest, or a worker at the mission? Could anybody choose to have their final services here, or did you have to have a connection? 

As I watched I could hear hymns being played on a pipe organ, accompanied by singing. There were several hymns in a row, all familiar, but only one I knew for sure, "Ave Maria."

Just outside the chapel stood three Marines in dress blues, patiently waiting for the service to end. I decided to take a leisurely stroll around to the north side of the chapel into the old cemetery. Here there were many graves from the late 1700's. As I passed the graves, many of them decorated with abalone shells, I could still hear the vibrant music of the organ. What a beautiful setting! 

For a short time I wandered to other places in the mission. This included the museum and a larger courtyard. Relics from the past were put on view for all to see. Set at a table were ceramic bowls and jars and two wooden chairs, displayed to give the appearance of a humble Spanish home over 200 years ago. 

In a gallery next to the chapel sat a travertine marble sarcophagus with a life-size bronze sculpture of the deceased Father Junípero Serra resting atop. Father Serra is clothed in the Franciscan habit, with crucifix, cord and rosary, as he would have been upon preparation for burial. His bare feet rest upon a grizzly bear cub. Father Juan Crespí stands at the head of Serra, bending forward in an attitude of veneration. Father Crespí died two years before Father Serra, so this represents him ready to meet his friend in the spirit world. The sculpture is a cenotaph, meaning that it is just a memorial, and that the body is buried elsewhere. 

Junípero Serra was born in Mallorca, Spain in 1713 and came to the New World as a Franciscan Priest. He established nine of the 21 missions in California, including the one at Carmel. He presided over the mission from 1770 until his death in 1784. He was buried beneath the floor of an old adobe chapel.

Then I returned to the courtyard. It was lovely there, with beds of flowers and cactus flanking the plaza. I knew the funeral was about to end because now the military men were getting into position. One stood near the doors of the chapel with a trumpet while the other two at a strategic point in the courtyard. They held a tightly-folded flag. 

One by one the family and friends of the deceased filtered out of the chapel and into the courtyard. All were dressed in Sunday best with suits and ties for the men and dresses for the ladies. 

When all were out, they created a quarter circle around the Marines. As Taps began to play, the two servicemen unfolded the flag until it stood as one sheet, taking in the rays of sun and held firmly by the white gloves of the men. 

They held it taut, horizontal to the sky, then with ceremonious attention, they tilted it to a forty-five degree angle so the tiny crowd could see. Then they returned it to horizontal and proceeded to fold it again. They folded it precisely and with duty, their white gloves tucking it in and making sure all was snug. 

One of them took the folded flag and walked it to the widow. He handed it to her and with the utmost respect gave a slow salute. All was silent in the courtyard. 

And with that the funeral was over. Family and friends walked over to hug the widow. The servicemen walked to the gate and left the courtyard. I watched in awe, taking in the beautiful ceremony. 

Within five minutes, much of the crowd had cleared and all was returning to normal at the mission. For the first time I entered the chapel. It was long and narrow with two rows of pews and one aisle that ran toward the altar. The altarpiece was elaborate, with several sculptures, including one of the crucified Christ at center. 

At the front of the chapel on the left side of the altar, etched into the floor, were the grave markers of three burials. The middle one read: “Fr. Junípero Serra, Apóstol de California, 1713- 1784.” 

The little adobe chapel where Father Serra was originally interred was torn down and in 1797 a bigger, more magnificent basilica was placed in its stead. His body remained beneath the floor of the sanctuary, precisely below where I now stood. I wondered how many funerals over the years had been held in this very hallowed spot. ♠

 

The Funeral

Author's Note: The following is a true account that I wrote on April 24, 2013. I would like to collect and share some of the stories that I have written. This one happened while I was on my route for the United States Postal Service. I hope to add more stories that pertain to my job considering the likelihood that the Post Office may cease to exist some day. 

 

Yesterday I was delivering mail on Mesa Hills Drive when a silver sedan pulled up alongside me. An older gentleman, probably in his eighties, got out of the passenger side holding a piece of paper and came toward me.

“Can you help us, sir? We're lost and can't find the church and we're late to a funeral.” 

It is not uncommon for us as postal workers to be asked directions. But to receive a plea from a person who is wishing to find the place where he can pay his last respects rarely comes. In fact, I have never seen it. 

He pulled out a piece of paper with the obituary and some hand-written directions on bottom. “The address they have here has got to be wrong, doesn't it?” – I examined it, and without a doubt, it was incorrect. The obituary stated 1925 east, and clearly, that point did not exist, and we were at nearly 1925 west. And as for the written directions, they were messed up also – take a right on such and such a street that doesn't even exist. But, reinterpreting the address, I determined that it had to be the church just a couple blocks away. 

“We just drove past a church over there,” the old man stated, “and nobody was there.” 

That didn't sound right. There was only one church on this hill and I was determined to get them to their funeral!

“Let me drive you there,” I insisted. The old man was happy with that as he pranced back to the car. The driver was his daughter, a younger lady also dressed in her Sunday best. I led the way in my postal vehicle through the maze of streets on the hill. The church wasn't too far away, but I didn't want them lost. They were late! 

We pulled up to the church. No one there.

I walked over to the passenger-side window and peered in at the frustrated couple. 

“It's got to be here,” I said. “It's the only church on the hill.” He pulled out the paper again with the directions and obituary. The deceased man was Leslie Brower, a person I was familiar with and who lived on my route. I began skimming downward to the date of the funeral⸺Monday, April 22 at 9:30 am⸺the obituary stated. I read it out loud. “I know,” the man said. “Today is the 22nd.” 

“No it's not, Daddy. Today is the 23rd. Tomorrow is your birthday!” 

At this realization, the man's face immediately became sullen. He looked downward in devastating introspection. 

“I am very sorry,” I offered the man. “This is awful.” Indeed it was. I said this with every genuine feeling I had. I had just experienced my own daughter's funeral and knew how important a funeral can be to bring closure to a broken heart. 

“No. I am the one who is sorry. That man was my best friend growing up. We were inseparable.” 

There was little left to be done. His friend by now was in the ground, never to be exhumed. 

I offered to drive them over to Leslie's house, hoping there would be a family member still at home. They gladly accepted and I led them to 1945 west 265 south. They pulled up at the curb just behind me. There was one white pickup truck with an elk decal parked in the driveway. 

“Yep, this is it,” he said. “I've been here before and it looks familiar.” 

I moved on my way, but prayed all along that someone was home to greet them. That's what they needed in this time of tragedy. ♠