A farewell to Doris

 

The Gospel According to No One: A Farewell to Doris

The room was packed—a testament to Doris’s standing in the community, or perhaps just a collective desire to see if she’d finally folded her hand. The afternoon began with a grace that Doris herself would have approved: a volunteer soloist and pianist who performed with such professional polish you’d almost forgotten they weren’t on the payroll.

Friends offered brief, salt-of-the-earth tributes that hit all the right notes of genuine affection. It was a lovely, dignified affair.

And then came the Pastor.

Evidently, this man serves as the self-appointed governor of the bi-weekly marathon events Doris frequented. I say "governor" because he spoke with the administrative stamina of a man filibustering his own conscience. For forty-five grueling minutes, we were treated to a "spew" of oration so relentlessly Jesus-adjacent that Doris—the supposed guest of honor—became a mere footnote in her own obituary.

Is it impious of me to suggest that a "celebration of life" should, at some point, actually celebrate the life in question? To the pews of "normal" people, his ranting felt less like a eulogy and more like a hostage situation. In my younger, more volatile years, I’d have checked my watch at ten minutes and checked out of the building at eleven.

Still, we were there for Doris. She was a fine woman, even if the tributes to her card-playing prowess leaned heavily toward the hagiographic. One speaker suggested she was a master of the table; personally, I’d say her grasp of contract bridge procedures was "experimental" at best.

She may have lacked a killer instinct for a Grand Slam, but she deserved better than being upstaged by a man who couldn't find the "Amen" if his life depended on it.