I've been thinking about evolution, of sorts.

The rocket blast that launches a space shuttle is ultra-advanced, highly focused, precision-tuned fire. Super Fire!

Or the station wagon that gets me to work every day: a plush rolling-thing with cushions and pockets. Super Wheel!

Or the roof and walls of my home with seasonally-appropriate climate control, view panels, containers, food storage, body coverings, communication centers, energy sources, running water... Super Cave!

Or, the stories we tell ourselves about who we wish we could be: the man faster than a speeding bullet, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, with senses approaching omniscience and a desire to do good. Super Man!

Or, what started me on all this in the first place, the stories we tell ourselves about what it means to be human, to be mortal, about what happens to us when we die, and what it means when someone we love has died... Super Comfort!

Reader alert: I am an atheist and highly opinionated. What follows are only my own views. I do not claim to be the final word in truth. I do not wish to cast aspersions on someone elses belief if it gives them comfort. I'm just saying what it looks like to me, describing my journey of the past week.

Our Lady Of..., where Ellens funeral was held, is an incredibly beautiful building. The "cathedral ceiling" here is as far beyond the "cathedral ceiling" you see in some well-built home as, (pause while I think of a good analogy), as mature redwood and algae (okay, a weird comparison, but you get the idea). The bas-relief stations of the cross were painted in such a way as to stand out from the pale golden tones of the walls without appearing garish, rich red and copper wall-coverings accenting the altar. Im impressed by the lighting somehow this gigantic space is made to feel intimate without being washed out in floodlights or obscured in shadow. The massive columns beneath the arches have just enough ornamentation on their upper reaches to feel graceful, as though giving rise to puffy cloudlets instead of supporting tons of architecture. The same design is echoed in the screen behind the altar. I cant really think of the right words to say how it looks, but these float in my mind as I look at it: mist, cascade, up, waterfall, light, curl, lift, white.

A colleague of mine has noticed that my partner and I have entered and invites us to sit with the rest of the staff from my school. We walk up front to join them. I notice that mine is the only spouse present and idly wonder why. It is Friday; I keep forgetting that the rest of the world is at work today.

Music is playing I look around for the singer. The sound system and acoustics here astound my musician ears. Every other pillar has a set of speakers attached to them; any person using a mike sounds like she is sitting next to me. This wreaks havoc on my sense of directional listening every sound is coming from every possible where around me. After a few minutes search it becomes clear to me that the voice belongs to the organist, I can see her headset and moving lips. George (the husbear) tells me later her voice reminds him of Sarah Brightman (not one of my favorite singers). She does have that breathy almost little-girl quality sweet, but in my opinion not so attractive in an adult voice. I cant help the critique, guess its just my training paradoxically, I do find the music soothing.

Big. Everything here is big. Bigger than life. Bigger than death too, my inner Maniac adds, in their opinion, I bet. I am struck by the thought that this House of God is as big an elaboration on the concept house as as but I can think of nothing apropos, not now anyway.

Church, of any flavor, is always a difficult place for me. I was raised by born-again fundamentalist Protestants, I was myself born-again. Coming out did not go over well either in my family or in the church I attended. Essentially I was dropped by all those people as a hopeless, backsliding, unfaithful, unbelieving homo which as you might guess soured me on Christianity (I have since reconciled with my family). Their negative reaction to my orientation also began my questioning of Christian teaching, for which I found no satisfactory answers. Eventually I came to see my old faith as a set of stories no more and no less. Fiction, meant to express something about our experience of life and death, but certainly not factual in any regard. The story of Noah is true in the same way as Jack and the Beanstalk both illuminate something of the human condition.

Consequently, when I am in the presence of those stories I feel like I become three different people in order to cope with them. The Maniac rages about the literalism: how DARE they insist on using that irrational bit of fancy as consolation resurrection my behind! The Interpreter runs nearly non-stop: what could it mean, what could it MEAN, what COULD it mean, those words dont have to have the horrible tangible truths that were used to punish you before, what are they really trying to say? I sit between the two, unable to decide if its better to put my fingers in my ears and hum loudly, or to reduce the liturgy to its simplest possible terms:

We miss Ellen.
We are sad.
We want to understand death. Where did she go?
We grieve, we grieve together.

Communion is served and again from the Translator:

We are together.
We want to take in something that reminds of how we are part of something (undefined) much larger, and that we do belong.
We want to feel grounded.

Hymns are sung. Oh, Lordy, no, Amazing Grace is in the program. Please, not this song, so prominent a part of my believing youth, whose words are now poisonous to me. Flecks of foam fly from The Maniacs mouth: saved a wretch like me who are they to tell me Im a wretch OR that I need their stinking salvation, judgmental bastards all of them, take care of the log in your own eye! The Translator is at a loss for words all he knows is that I find comfort in the physical act of singing in the taking in of deep breath, in the vibration of song in my chest and my head, in the blending of my voice in the oceanic soundscape of this sanctuary, in the simplicity of this old, old folk tune so I sing, immerse my body in the sensation and try not to think about the words at all.

The school superintendent speaks Ellens eulogy. I admire this man, his integrity, his intelligence, his leadership, his commitment to education, his eloquence, his respect for and friendship with Ellen. For a moment all the voices in my head sit together as one, appreciative of his memories of her, grateful to rest, if briefly, from self-defense.

Before we are dismissed a blessing is given over the closed casket, the congregants are invited to a reception in the basement, incense is waved and she is borne out of the church.

As the postlude is played Im again struck by a comparison the distance between my simple what could it mean interpretations and the florid embellishments of this liturgical ritual seems like light years. Tears have come and gone throughout the hour for various reasons; oddly, despite the inner battles, I am glad I have come.

Lux terna luceat eis, Domine,
cum sanctis tuis in ternum, quia pius es.
Requiem ternam dona eis, Domine;
et lux perpetua luceat eis.

May everlasting light shine upon them, O Lord,
with thy saints in eternity , for thou art merciful.
Grant them eternal rest, O Lord,
and may everlasting light shine upon them.

We are saying goodbye.
It hurts, it is sad.
Well miss her.
Well remember her.