ILMJ!

My Life as an Officiant

I’ve been performing weddings for nineteen years now, and presiding over funerals for at least a decade. It is always interesting work and, though I’ve lost actual count, I reckon I have led more than a thousand ceremonies. I doubt I’ll ever write another book, but if I did, I could easily fill hundreds of pages with various wacky encounters I’ve had at these affairs.

There was that time I had to get up before a wedding at the most expensive, elegant venue in the county and announce to the guests we had “a situation.” One of the groomsmen had been arrested the night before—public intoxication I think. He had just been bailed out and was rushing to the wedding. However, he did not have his shirt. I was to explain that he would be appearing bare chested under his suit jacket, like someone had invited a Chippendale’s dancer as a prank. I chose my words carefully and suggested that we all have a little laugh together in the moment, to get it out of our system before the actual processional.

Another time, I was standing inside the outline of a large heart made of rose petals arranged on the ground. Beside me was the groom. The bride was just about to make her entrance when the groom’s mother came dashing inside the petal heart and started going off in very rapid Spanish. My Spanish is terrible and so I stood confused, trying to figure out what she was shouting. Something about the chairs? Had she not been assigned a seat? Oh no, that wasn’t the problem. Later I learned that in essence she was telling her son that he had seated her too close to his father (“That asshole!”) and his stupid new wife and he better fix it NOW.

There was that time a flower girl fainted. And that other time when I agreed to wear a unicorn mask. And that other time I dressed like Elvis. There was the funeral for a 24 year-old woman who died by suicide when, right before the graveside service, I was confronted by the Anglican priest who was there to perform the religious portion. I had been brought in to read some Buddhist passages. He spittled at me, apoplectic, as he screamed there would be no Buddhism at his service, acting like I was a random stranger who had crashed this sad service specifically to torture him, not someone invited by the family to honor their daughter.

On multiple occasions I have had the terrible honor of presiding over memorial services for young men whose weddings I also performed. Those have been some of the hardest as I found myself surrounded by families I had previously met under joyful circumstances and now was called on to console.

Last Friday I had an especially fun run-in at a funeral with someone I’d not seen in decades. Before the service began, a trim man with brilliant blue eyes stood up and shook my hand. I had a vague sense of recognition but couldn’t place him specifically. Then he reminded me—he had been my son Henry’s junior high science teacher back in 2004. Ah, yes! It all came back to me—that time I was having a panic attack and he came to my rescue.

That long ago day started out as most school days did when it was my turn to drive carpool. I am not a morning person so I was already stressed out, hustling hard to not be late. I picked up a couple of other kids and off we went. Not long into the drive something hit the windshield. Hard.

A bird.

It was very obvious the bird was dead. It was also tangled up in a windshield wiper. One boy said, from the backseat, “GROSS!” My son, well versed in my severe allergic reaction to anxiety, hissed for the kid to shut up.

For my part, I miscalculated gravely when I decided that a simple way to get rid of the bird was to turn on the wipers. The folly of this action became immediately clear. Now the bird scraped back and forth across the windshield. I quickly turned the wipers off and tried not to cry.

The ride was only a couple of miles but felt interminable. When we got to the school I shouted for Henry to go get his homeroom teacher. While I waited, a passing mom looked at the situation and cartoonishly raised her eyebrows and dramatically pointed at the bird, as if she were bringing it to my attention for the first time, as if I couldn’t see for myself that winged corpse right in front of my eyes.

At last Henry returned with his science teacher who calmly disentangled the bird, held it aloft gingerly and announced matter-of-factly, “Common grackle.” Then he set off to dispose of the body.

When he introduced himself at the funeral, I said, honestly, that I had just remembered that story a few days before and what a coincidence it was to run into him now. I told him Henry is doing well as a visual artist in New York. Then I asked him how he was doing.

He’s been retired for ten years now. “I do a lot of birding,” he said, then paused before adding with a smile, “live birds.”

I burst out laughing.

For many years, before I quit META, I was in the habit of posting photos from weddings and sometimes funerals, too. Always with the same accompanying acronym: ILMJ!

Everyone who followed me knew just what this meant. And I was pleased to see others sometimes adopt it for their own posts.

I Love My Job! is the acronym decoded. And it’s true. I do love this job. It is always dynamic and interesting. Sometimes fraught. Never dull. Always an opportunity to serve. Occasionally even offering a chance to laugh in a graveyard.

JOY AND BEAUTY DEPARTMENT

Some photos from my officiant work.

THE LAWNMOWER REPORT

NOTES:

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