Bridgette would've wanted it this way

-Bridgette would've wanted it this way-

Never in my life did I imagine I would ever do this; then again, never
did I imagine my wife would die so young, either.
The morning sky was overcast when I pulled into the over-crowded
parking lot, cars circling, looking for a spot. I was told it started
at ten, but a glance at my watch showed it was already 9:57. I began to
worry, didn't know how everyone would react to a straggler, and
wondered if it was like our Wednesday morning office meetings when
someone would sneak in, late. After five minutes of looping, I
recognized a "Visitor" spot near the front. Since I never even thought
about coming before, I figured that should constitute being a
"Visitor". I locked my car, fixed the cuff of my right pant leg, and
hustled up a flight of steps to the First Baptist Church of
Ebbsville.
An over-smiling elderly man handed me some folded papers, reminding me
of those odd people on street corners, Hare Krishnas, or those annoying
Jehovah's Witnesses that would knock on our door during dinner. I
smiled and nodded, trying to be cordial, then walked inside, glancing
around for a place to sit. Folding chairs were erected in the outer
isles, and another usher tried leading me towards the front row, to an
open seat. I shook my head and shrugged affably, choosing instead an
empty spot in the back. The place was packed. More people went to
church these days than I thought.
A chipper, mid-30's fellow stepped behind the podium, joyfully
proclaimed "Happy Easter!" and asked us all to rise to our feet. They
sang #324, "He Is Risen," and I looked around, not knowing the words,
and not caring to sing unless it was 'U2' anyway. We rose and sat, rose
and sat about four times, singing intermittently and hearing the weekly
announcements. Women's meeting Thursday, Youth Group Saturday, a
pot-luck somethin' or other next Sunday. Everyone was smiling, but I
was bored out of my mind.
I wasn't exactly sure what Bridgette saw in this place. Every week she
came, every Sunday for the past six years. She taught a third grade
Sunday School class, and was a faithful giver, what she called,
"tithing". I hated when she gave our money away, and especially to her
church. What did they ever give to us? Only a reduced bank account and
a premature death.
Bridgette was on her way here two months ago, 8:30 like always, to
teach those little kids about God and Bible-stuff. At 4th and
Mercantile, a minivan careened through the intersection, brakes
disengaged, ending my wife's life. I got the call from a "Brother
Sandford". Two months later, she's still dead, and I'm at church. I
promised her I'd go sometime, so in some weird way I think this is how
she'd want it now.
After plenty of singing, I looked at my watch, hoping it would be over
soon. It wouldn't. Only 10:23. Another man, more formally dressed than
the first, took his place at the podium. Everyone settled in. This must
have been the guy they came to see. When he spoke, I realized this was
the guy they came to hear. His voice resonated with authority as he
opened the tattered Bible, and excruciatingly detailed the death of
Jesus Christ. I had a feeling these people had heard it before, that
even Bridgette's little one's knew the story by heart. But I never had,
not so vividly. It never really hit me that this man, this innocent and
compassionate man, was murdered. Then, shocking me even more, Pastor
Douglas proclaimed that He had come back to life, had risen from the
dead. It creeped me out a bit at first, thinking of a few cheesy,
eighties' horror movies. But it was real, was true. He conquered death
so that we could live forever. How profound! There was more to life
than, than this life. We could be eternally freed from heartache, and
even, death. I recognized that Bridgette now lived with this Jesus,
happily, and forever.
My pain didn't simply melt away, but I started to understand a bit why
she came, every Sunday, since her "rebirth" six years ago. And I
realized too, that perhaps she was actually joyful in a sense to have
passed, to have truly been reborn in what this Protestant pastor
referred to as, "That Glorious Kingdom". A warmth pervaded my chest, it
heaved a few times, but I kept the tears down. I don't remember the
rest of his speech, just that most of the people cheered, like at a
sporting event when the home team comes back after being down the
entire game. I felt their passion, began to understand their pride in
this man's actions for them, and felt ashamed for making Bridgette
experience this on her own.
Pastor Douglas finished, we stood and sang again, "He Lives" this
time, #209, and I mustered a few lines between the tears cluttering my
vision. The service ended, people smiled, hugged, and made their way
back to the overcrowded parking lot. I sat on the back pew, families
passing by, and stared at the large cross hanging above the bathtub
behind the stage. I gazed into it, wondering what the pastor would have
to say about this man when I came back next Sunday morning.