My Godfather passed away in late May, and I went down to Florida for his funeral. I'll tell you one thing: Pentecostals know how to make a funeral into a full-fledged production. There was a program full of speeches and performances for this event. His memory exemplified by each person that took the stage, one particular speaker who's words essentially captured what my grieving heart had to say was a public servant who I thought was going to just give a general thank you to my uncle for his community service he gave throughout his years. When in actuality, this was a friend from youth who had given my Godfather a place to crash when he had moved to the states from Puerto Rico. He remarked to the audience, "I thought I was giving Pablo a helping hand by giving him a place to crash, but really it was me who needed the help. He taught me how to fix pipes, plumbing, and others, but most of all he taught me how to minister in the midst of accomplishing the most mundane of tasks. That was his ministry, showing up to help any and everyone in need, and spreading the word of God in between."
I was asked to speak at the burial by a cousin who was helping my Titi with the funeral. I didn't want to, because knowing my emotional self I wouldn't keep a stable voice. I spoke anyway. I had scrambled to think of what to say and how to make it elegant, but of course when it was my turn to address the crowd I lost my words. I tried to emulate what my uncle's friend had said, but I wanted to frame it from the experience of being apart of the youth my Godfather had influenced. My Godparents never had children of their own, so they treated their Godchildren and the youth of their church like their own. One of the kids I had known growing up had stopped me outside of the church on the way to the burial to greet me and share his own heartbreak on my Tio's passing and we agreed that although they spent a chunk of their time dedicated to mentoring and helping guide the youth they met along their path.
I had an idea that of course got thrown out the window due to my own emotional overwhelm, but it was poetic. I wanted to paint my Tio Pablo as a gardener. In reality he was a contractor, but as the conversation with my friend who stopped me and I agreed: they took the effort and care into their presence of our lives. So this is how I wanted to portray him: as someone who planted seeds with everyone in their path. I was holding a white rose I would later place on his casket and it seemed poetic enough, but of course I choked on my tears. Honestly, I was heartfelt and I was told it was understood that way, as well I was told my words could've been applied to everyone listening despite speaking from my own personal experiences and thats what I cared about.
Between my own words, the words of the friend who gave him a place to crash, and everyone else's remarks: we all understood that my Tio was a man of you might not remember the detail of everything he did, but we all remembered how he made us feel. And honestly, that is something I try to live like; a gardener who plants the seeds and just hopes to see what comes of it without the guarantee, merely motivated by the hope that one spark will light another. I don't hope to over-glorify, but I do wish to just share a part of my heart.
