Every December my daughter and I (and our special guest baker Tommy) gather for three very long days (plus usually one for gathering supplies) and we bake. And we bake and we bake and we bake. Cookies. All kinds of cookies. Chocolate Chip Meltaways . . . Seuss Trees . . . Molasses Crinkles . . . Oatmeal, Raisin, Walnut . . . you name it and we’ve probably made it at least once. We try our best not to let the world interfere, simply because when you lose an hour you’ve lost a batch. But sometimes . . . sometimes things just happen that can’t be helped.
Like the year Savannah’s Service of Remembrance fell right smack in the middle of baking. Or the time my husband and I traveled to Memphis for grandkid stuff, leaving my daughter and Tommy alone in the kitchen and up to their elbows in cookie dough. And more recently, there was a visitation I felt compelled to attend.
The family had chosen to have everything in one day, which meant seeing everyone the night before wasn’t an option. It also meant the visitation time basically cut the day in half. That’s hard on cookie baking. But I knew what I needed to do . . . what I had to do . . . what I wanted to do.
So, when the time came to get ready, I pulled the pan of cookies out of the oven—the ones I’d been carefully watching to keep them from overbaking. Then I washed the flour from my hands (and face . . .), dug the cocoa powder out from under my fingernails, and changed from my comfortable, cookie-baking clothes into my time-to-offer-condolences clothes. Oh, and I put my shoes on (because cookie baking is an activity best done in bare feet—condolence offering maybe not so much). And then I got into my car and drove to the funeral home.
All in all, from handwashing to walking back through the door, I might have been gone an hour. Maybe a bit more, but not much. And yet the family had seemed glad to see me, welcoming me with big smiles and open arms. Not because I’m that special. But because I took the time to come.
We always talk about how Life doesn’t stop for our grief. That Life doesn’t stop for Death, and there’s truth to that statement. The world will keep turning and people will go about their business and everyone will eventually forget to ask how you are or if they can help. But you know what? Life may not stop, but it should at least slow down. It should slow down enough for us to attend the visitation or service. It should slow down enough for us to be there if we’re needed. It should slow down enough for us to remember. Someone is grieving. Someone is hurting. Someone who could use just a word of comfort. A phone call. A card. A simple hello and how are you.
As much as we might wish it would, the world won’t stop turning when Death comes to call. But for those who are dealing with the pain of loss, we can at least slow it down just a bit.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth-generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926 and has worked with Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 45 years. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
