The casket was rolled in. The piano played funeral hymns. And there I was, behind a pulpit, poised before a congregation that was standing-room only. 

There were people standing in the back of the room, lining the walls of the chapel, spilling from the balcony, filing out open doors, sitting on windowsills, or on the floor. They were four and five deep. 

And they were all looking at me.  

When I was a child, the old timers didn’t call them “funerals.” I never heard an elderly person in my family call it a “funeral.” They called them “homegoings.” 

A homegoing is very different from a funeral. Funeral means “goodbye.” Homegoing means “hello.” It’s all about how you look at it. 

My people were country people. They were simple, rural people, accustomed to living around large animals. They were church people, with scripture-verse embroidery hanging on their walls, and muddy boots on the porch. They preferred saying hello rather than goodbye. 

I looked at the casket. My cousin by marriage lay there, draped in a decorative

blanket. It was so quiet you could have heard an iPad drop. 

And well, actually, that’s what everyone DID hear. Because I dropped the iPad that contained my speech. And I nearly toppled into the choir loft when I bent to retrieve it.  

This is not my first funeral. I have been playing music at funerals since I was 9 years old. When you are born with the curse of being a mediocre musician, your main gig is weddings, funerals, and the occasional grand opening of used car dealerships. 

At my grandfather’s funeral, I sang “Amazing Grace.” I played “I’ll Fly Away” at my father’s service.

But this service was different. Namely, because this comes at a strangely pivotal time in my life. 

Yesterday was my birthday. And New Year’s Eve was tomorrow. It was like standing between life and death, perched on opposite sides…

My birthday lands exactly four days after Christmas. This means that, traditionally, I usually receive holiday gifts from family members who smile sweetly as I open presents, saying, “Just to be clear, this is for Christmas AND your birthday.”

It’s hard being born during Christmastime and also not being Jesus. But over the years, I’ve gotten used to having a post-Christmas birthday. In fact, it’s kind of nice having your big day while the whole world is between hangovers.

This birthday was a particularly big one for me. Because as of yesterday, I am now older than my dad was when he died.

I don’t know what it is about kids who lose parents young, but something happens to your childhood brain. The age at which your parent dies becomes the age you never expect to reach. It is as though someone moves the goalposts inward.

Over the years, I’ve talked with people who lost parents as children. They all sort of feel the same way.

Many of them are surprised when “That Age” happens to them.

My dad died when he was 41 years old. Forty-one was That Age for me. Last year, on my birthday, I kept marveling at the fact that I was actually still alive. I stayed up late that night, just to be sure.

And now that I’m even older than my father was, it’s weird.

When someone dies, their image is forever cemented in your mind at the precise moment of their death. And so, in my head, my father is a perpetual 41-year-old. He’s a middle-aged guy, just like me, who doesn’t know jack squat about life.

He’s walking around inside my brain, still living a regular life, still changing the oil every three thousand miles, still shouting at the radio about the importance of relief pitching.

Whenever I think of him, I realize…