After I dropped her off, I went home and couldn’t sit still. I called my brother Tom in Des Moines. I called my daughter. I almost called the church secretary and then didn’t, because I knew Mom would be angry if I made a fuss.
Around eight o’clock I gave up and drove back over to Mom’s house.
She was at the dining room table with the overhead light on, and there were notebooks spread out in front of her. Spiral notebooks. The cheap kind with the cardboard covers. A whole stack of them, maybe twenty, held together in bundles with rubber bands that had gone brittle.
“What are those?”
“My services.”
I sat down across from her.
She slid one toward me. It was from 1978. The cover was faded green. Inside, in her neat schoolteacher handwriting, were entries. Every one the same shape.
Date. Name. Wedding or funeral. Hymns played. And a line or two at the bottom.
June 3, 1978. Funeral. Harold Ferris. Age 61. “Abide With Me,” “Shall We Gather at the River.” Lois sat in front. Asked for “River” because Harold fished. Held up well until the last verse.
August 19, 1978. Wedding. Dale Larson and Mary Kay Breen. “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring,” Mendelssohn. Bride’s mother cried before I started. Dale’s tie was crooked the whole time and nobody told him.
I turned the pages. Then I picked up another notebook. And another.
“Mom. How many are there?”
“Funerals or weddings?”
“Both.”
She didn’t have to look it up.
“Six hundred and forty-one funerals. Three hundred and twelve weddings. And a good many baptisms, but I didn’t write those down. Babies don’t need a record. They’ve got their whole lives.”
I sat there with a notebook from 1991 open in my lap.
“You never told anyone about these.”
“Why would I? They’re not for anyone. They’re for me.” She touched the edge of the stack. “When you play for somebody’s funeral, you don’t want to forget them. That’s all. I didn’t want any of them to be just a Saturday.”
I turned a page.
March 11, 2009. Funeral. Lorraine Whitfield. Age 79.
I stopped.
“Mom.”
“I know.”
“Whitfield.”
“I know, Karen. I looked her up this afternoon. That’s why I got them all out.”
I read the entry.
March 11, 2009. Funeral. Lorraine Whitfield. Age 79. “It Is Well With My Soul,” “How Great Thou Art,” “In the Garden.” Family drove in from Ames. Grandson about fifteen, sat in the second pew in a suit too big for him. Cried so hard during “It Is Well” his father had to take him outside. Lorraine taught Sunday school here for thirty years. Asked for “It Is Well” in her own handwriting, on a card she left with the pastor in 2003. I’d have played it anyway.
I looked up.
“That’s him,” I said. “That’s Pastor Whitfield.”
“I believe it is.”
“He was at his grandmother’s funeral. In this church. And you played it.”
“I did.”
“And he doesn’t remember.”
“He was fifteen and his grandmother had died.” Mom took the notebook back gently and closed it. “Nobody remembers the organist, Karen. That’s not what the organist is for.”
Sophia Rivers is an experienced News Content Editor with a sharp eye for detail and a passion for delivering accurate and engaging news stories. At TheArchivists, she specializes in curating, editing, and presenting news content that informs and resonates with a global audience.
Sophia holds a degree in Journalism from the University of Toronto, where she developed her skills in news reporting, media ethics, and digital journalism. Her expertise lies in identifying key stories, crafting compelling narratives, and ensuring journalistic integrity in every piece she edits.
Known for her precision and dedication to the truth, Sophia thrives in the fast-paced world of news editing. At TheArchivists, she focuses on producing high-quality news content that keeps readers informed while maintaining a balanced and insightful perspective.
With a commitment to delivering impactful journalism, Sophia is passionate about bringing clarity to complex issues and amplifying voices that matter. Her work reflects her belief in the power of news to shape conversations and inspire change.