You never know what a kid might be thinking.
During Sunday school, for example, I kept trying to figure out why I was a weak butt. It was from a song we sang almost every class: Jesus loves me, this I know . . . Little ones to him belong. They are weak butt. He is strong.
I didn’t want to say the word butt out loud. So I didn’t ask. I just kept wondering.
When my great-grandpa died, I found another puzzlement. It was a momentous and solemn time. Great-grandpa was the bishop, and over 700 people attended his funeral. Many of us were his family. From his nine children came 62 grandchildren and 116 great-grandchildren, with more being born each month.
I was young and little and one of the many who called him Grandpa. Still, I had my own particular memories. Once I sat with him in church. Never before had I listened to a sermon in the Amen Corner. There, people with grey hair and gnarled hands and hunched-over backs sat perfectly still. No one colored pictures or ate pretzels or played with little black and white magnetic dogs that chased each other across the hymnal. The only thing I could find to do during that whole church service was fiddle with the ends of Great-Grandpa’s long beard. It was as white as snow and as springy as a rubber band. When I pulled down, it jumped back into place. Great-Grandpa, his eyes twinkling down, showed me he didn’t mind.
The evening before the funeral, I stood in a long line, waiting to see him in his casket. Beside the casket a lamp shone. I had never seen such a lamp. Its glass shade was shaped like a bowl. And it looked like someone had sprinkled snips of hair inside it.
Why?
I couldn’t ask my mom. In that whole room, no one even whispered. So while we shuffled along in line, waiting our turn, I figured it out. This must be a funeral lamp. And to honor Great-Grandpa, they decorated it with hair from his beard. It felt good, clearing up something so puzzling.
The next day during the funeral, I sat sad, knowing I’d never see Great-Grandpa’s beard again. But under the sadness was also a certain smugness, guessing that many of my cousins still didn’t understand about funeral lamps.
Life is like this, I thought, trying not to wiggle on the bench during the long funeral, full of things you’ve got to figure out.
Apple to Apple 