A ride through Astoria

I am not often in Queens, a sort of forgotten borough of New York City with the exception of the thousands of people that live in this dense area of the city. On this occasion I was there to preside at a funeral for a family that had lost their father at 86 years. He was a Lutheran and they needed a pastor, so I was there to help them through this difficult passage. He was survived by his three children. They insisted on a graveside service which was fine with me, but it was preceded by a funeral procession which was to pass by familiar places like the family home and church.

So, we were off on our journey through a place teeming with people from all kinds of ethnic backgrounds. As we drove through crowded streets on a Saturday morning I saw grocery stores that were Spanish or Greek. I noticed Italian restaurants, and a Brazilian place that looked good among nail shops and Korean noodle shops. It was an adventure to the eye to be seeing all the different nationalities and languages and people as we processed with poor leadership from the guy in the hearse. Within a few minutes we had lost half of the procession and minutes later two yellow taxi cabs joined our group for a while along with some other unwanted cars. When we crossed intersections impatient people in cars tried to pull in front of us. Next time I hope that guy who was so angry at me will wave at me with 5 fingers instead of just one.

The farther along we continued, the more difficult it got, but not knowing where the cemetery was I was determined to continue, no matter what and not get separated from the lead car. We eventually arrived at the graveside and waited for those lost to find us—which most of them did. All I kept thinking about was the passage: “Let the dead bury the dead”… It would be easier than trying to drive through Queens on a Saturday morning. Life does go on even in the midst of death and in Queens it looks extra busy.

Despite all the complications we arrived at the spot where he was to lay, next to his wife, as his tree children and grandchildren looked on to receive a flag from our country where he served. I did hear the military man say, “He served 4 years overseas, he is the real McCoy, the genuine article a member of the ‘greatest generation’”. His children told me that he was a great dad and husband and even was an usher and Elder at Grace Lutheran Church in Astoria.

Life goes on, no question about that. Sometimes we just need to stop and pay our last respects to a life well lived and one given for others.