This was one of the most intense experiences of my life…
We had been visiting the gypsy villages throughout the month. The first day we visited Albie, his wife was in the corner weeping. Albie was in bed, his frame frail and his breathing labored. His wife desperately wanted us to pray for him. As we prayed she continued to weep. Even though she didn’t understand our prayers, I could tell they deeply touched her. We sang on a couple of the visits and Jess took many pictures of Albie and his wife. Only 48 hours prior to his death, she gave them the printed photographs, probably the only photos they ever had.
We continued to visit their home yet Albie’s condition only worsened. With no insulation and holes in the cement walls, the home was freezing and dreary. Living in a one-room home with no electricity and barely enough room for a small bed seemed like the last place I would want to spend my dying days.
As we prayed for health, I began to question my prayers. When do you stop praying for healing and begin praying for a peaceful exit from this earth?
On our last Friday in Romania, he passed away. Only six months prior to his death he accepted Jesus into his life and was baptized in the small river near his home. Even in his dying days you could tell his trust was in heaven. His wife would clasp her hands together and point to the sky with tears in her eyes.
The funeral was on a chilly Sunday. It was held outside their small home with Romas from the community gathered around. His open casket was sitting inside their home, the smell of death in the air. Albie’s wife ran up to us, her eyes puffy. She motioned us into the room with Albie’s body and asked us to take photos. Albie was grasping money in his hands and a single rose was placed on his body.
Pastor Zsomber said a short prayer and the casket closed as the women in the room wailed. Placing 2-by-4s under the plastic casket, men carried it out in front of his house and set it on the ground. They asked one of us to say a few words and sing.
People from the community stood in the cold as Pastor Zsomber gave a short message. Men with shovels began walking toward the cemetery, our cue that the procession was about to begin.
Family members carried the flower arrangements and then the casket. The rest of us followed, taking the short walk to the graveyard on the hill. A man trailed us playing an accordion, while others from nearby homes stood watching as the procession passed.
We hiked up an icy hill, and finally made it to the gravesite, overlooking the village he had spent his entire life. The accordion played and one more song was sung. The pastor spoke and began to sing as tears rolled down his face.
His wife was clutching Jess with dear life as ropes were placed around the casket and it was lowered into the earth. Within minutes a group of men began shoveling dirt into the deep hole. As the dirt hit the casket below it made a thumping sound that will remain with me forever.
Everyone stood there, watching in complete silence, until a few began to venture down the hill. At the bottom a folding table was set-up with glasses of orange soda; butter, salami and pickle sandwiches were passed around. We all stood shivering as we ate our food and hugged those around us. Ablie’s wife was still clinging to Jess as her daughter peeled her off and began walking her home.
Only two hours after it all began, it was all over and Albie was finally at peace. Funerals remind me how short our time here on earth really is, almost as short as the funerals that follow.
