We Have Hope!

On February 3 my grandfather, Lawrence Whiteford, passed away at the age of 93.  We were so glad to have said our goodbyes in August.

I never expected to be able to attend his funeral, however my mom graciously offered to trade her ticket for a winter visit to Albania for me to be able to go home for the memorial service.  Nathan  remained in Albania with the children.

The trip was incredibly good, for so many reasons.  I cannot imagine having missed those days.

Our Whiteford family, after the post-funeral luncheon provided by the church.  It wasn't until later that we discovered that Grandma and Aunt Viola didn't know the photographer was in the balcony above!

Two weeks after his passing, and three days after returning from a week in the frozen prairie of central Illinois, I was back in the village preparing for our weekly women's Bible study.  Warming the tea kettle and setting out dessert, I was still struggling to figure out my plan for the evening's gathering without the help of a translator.  Shpresa, who usually facilitates, was representing Planters at a conference, and my usual go-to, Eda, had a conflict (she never misses Bible study).  At the least, we would fellowship and have a time of prayer.

One by one, the ladies started arriving and chatting while I set out refreshments.  They started asking about Nathan and the kids and about my unexpected trip to the States to be with my family.  (This is the kind of conversation I can maintain sans translator -- getting into deeper level conversations about theology?  Not there yet).

Then, because we are friends, they started asking more curious questions.  Obviously, I did not get there within 24 hours of his death, so surely he must have been cremated?

No, he was in the tokë (ground), in a kuti (box).  Note to self: learn the Albanian word for 'embalm.'

Was he buried on family property or in a public cemetery with other people around him?

I shared that he was buried in a community cemetery, where he had bought a place for himself and Grandma several years ago.

At this they shook their heads.  No, here we do not have to pay.  It's community ground!  Why would anyone have to pay?

Then came the next question.
So when and where did everyone sit and drink a coffee with us?  At grandmother's house?

I explained that we have different traditions, and that our friends, family and neighbors gather at a large, fancy house run by a funeral agjencia.  A date is set and announced in the newspaper and people come during a two-hour block of time to give their greetings to the family, or they send a card if they cannot attend in person.

Oh, they nodded slowly, eyebrows raised as they tried to digest this information.

But if you do not have a coffee, how do they give you money to pay for the funeral?

I explained that my grandfather had paid the agency for his funeral several years ago.

At this explanation, one of the younger ladies let a laugh escape and asked incredulously.  "He paid it himself?"

I could see why that would be surprising. No one here would trust an agency to hold your payment for several years and honor that contract. And few people here could save enough money to pay their own way, even if you could make arrangements in advance.

But what about the meal after the funeral?  Who paid for that?

I explained that my grandparents' church provided the meal, but that it was primarily only family and friends who had traveled a great distance who stayed for the meal.

That didn't seem so hard to believe because who would expect to be fed if they hadn't given cash to the family of the deceased?

At this point I sent off a quick message to Nathan to bring down the laptop.  I had to show them photos as I could only explain so much in Shqip.  They curiously gathered around the computer screen, remarking how young my 91-year-old grandmother looked.  I agreed.

But she's not wearing black!  someone pointed out, aghast at what would probably be considered here to be the height of disrespect for the deceased.

I smiled, thankful for the open door to share something that has been on my heart since my first Albanian funeral experience.

I explained that my grandfather was devoted to Christ from his teenage years until the end of his life, and that our family knew we would be reunited with him in heaven some day.

Ne kemi shpresë!  We have hope! I explained.

Again the heads nodded as if they understood, but in their eyes I could see the wheels were turning.

Someone even affirmed this novel idea, that the widow shouldn't have to wear black, and I think she understood my point -- it's not just because "Americans know better than we do."

I clicked through more images.  The flowers at the visitation.  The pallbearers carrying the casket.  The tent at the grave site (could they even imagine a temperature of 5 degrees Fahrenheit, without windchill factored in?).

The pastor at the graveside service had arranged a woman from church to sing I Walk Through the Garden.  At the sight of the singer, I identified her as a këngëtare.


Do you have special songs for funerals?
Not really, I explained.  We sing songs from church that praise God and remind us of the promise of heaven.
Did you have a professional cry-er?
Again I could understand this question.  While we had serious expressions on our faces, you could see in the photos that our family was not really a weepy bunch (to be sure, we had our tears, but we did not wear this expression on our faces continually).
At this point I wanted them to understand that this particular funeral was not just an AMERICAN funeral, but the funeral of a Believer.  Again I reiterated that we have HOPE.  I read from I Thessalonians 4, how we do not grieve like those who do not believe.






None of these women had ever attended the funeral of a Christian before. For most of their lives, their Muslim traditions and beliefs did not offer them assurance of eternity with God.  Death was a scary, sad, awful end with no consolation.

But what I wanted them to see, to understand, is that when we, as Children of God lose a fellow believer, we have HOPE.

Before I knew it, our hour had passed.  As everyone filed out of the center to walk back home in the coming darkness, I could hardly believe the way the evening had unfolded, better than any plan I might have devised. Even today I marvel how God continues to give us open doors to share His truth and the promises from His Word.