the funeral.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Heavy bags were imprinted under my eyes. I applied my foundation slowly, adding more concealer under my eyes to try and hide the dark circles.
I straightened my hair, pulling the hot iron slowly through my hair, piece by piece. I felt like I was moving in slow-motion, as if someone had taken a remote and pushed pause, then play, then pause, then play. My joints and limbs felt slushy and slow.
I dipped my mascara wand and applied it carefully to my eyelashes. I did not want to cry.
I can’t believe I’m putting on makeup to go to Tat’s funeral.
I pulled my hair back into a half knot, the same way Tat always wore hers. There have been so many times when I’ve walked down the street and seen a girl with her hair like that — and I’ve gasped, loudly, thinking it was Tat. But the girl always turns around, and it’s never her.
I can't believe I’m doing my hair to go to Tat’s funeral.
I thumbed through my different lipstick colours, already knowing what colour to wear. Tat’s mom, Tracy, suggested we wear red lips for Tat. Tat could rock a red lip better than any girl I knew. I found the red, and started delicately painting my lips.
I can’t believe I’m applying lipstick to go to Tat's funeral.
I pressed my bright red lips against each other. I looked in the mirror. I had on too much makeup. I looked like I was going to a party, not a funeral.
I sighed. It was a hot day. I put on a black dress and sandals. Tat’s parents had said we didn’t have to wear black — we could wear colour, Tat would’ve liked lots of colour — but I couldn’t bear the thought of wearing a colourful dress to her funeral.
The funeral was a few hours away from Hamilton, at the church she grew up at in Barrie. I was going to the burial the next day along with a handful of others, so I needed to drive up myself instead of going with friends from church. Olivia was worried for me; she didn’t think I should drive up alone.
Tat’s dad had asked me to speak at the funeral, and to share a piece from Tat’s blog. I didn’t mind driving alone because I knew I could practice my eulogy.
The day was sunny and bright; even in the early morning you could estimate how hot it was going to be. I set out for the long drive, audibly reciting my eulogy over and over again. I hadn’t eaten — I felt nauseous at the thought of stomaching food.
My iPhone operated my GPS, but halfway to Barrie, I missed the exit and couldn’t figure out how to get on the right road. I was lost. I felt sick.
I called my sister, crying.
“Are you okay?” Olivia asked when she picked up.
“I can’t find it!” I cried. “I’m going to be late and I have to speak — I can’t find where to turn off, I missed it, I’m going to miss her funeral, I can’t find it—”
I was hot and hungry and sad and scared.
“If you pull off to the side of the road, Mike and I can come find you,” my sister offered kindly. Olivia was sick that day — she had a raging fever. She should’ve stayed home in bed, but she couldn’t imagine missing Tat’s funeral.
“It’s okay. I’ll find it,” I said and hung up.
I wiped my frustrated tears. “God, I need you so bad it isn’t even funny,” I told him. “There’s no way I can do this on my own. I need you to get me to Barrie. I need you to help me make it through this funeral.”
Finally, I found the right exit and eventually made it to the long road that led to Emmanuel Barrie Church. It was a massive building, built in the shape of a large cross. There was a flashing billboard on the side of the parking lot. It flashed with Tat’s picture and her last words: Be calm and pray.
I parked my car, stepped out into the sticky day, and watched as dozens of people entered the church. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my shaky nerves. I should’ve eaten something.
When I walked through the large doors, a blast of cold air conditioning hit me, sending goosebumps down my body. Already there were hundreds of people filling the large church foyer. There were photos of Tat everywhere.
It was stunning. Rustic signs painted with Tat’s words decorated every corner. Huge bouquets of white flowers draped along tables, and sat in vases. Poster boards with tacked photos were scattered on easels — a poster for Tat and her camp friends, one for her and her best friend Brianna, one for her and her family, one for her and Matthew, another for her and her days at Bible college, and so many others — and I watched as people made their way around the lobby, staring at the photographs, perhaps hoping they’d find a photo of themselves with Tat. As if for some form of security that they meant something to her.
Some friends from our church, Mountainside, came up to me. Tat was one of the founding members of our church, helping to start it from the ground up a handful of years earlier. Many people from Mountainside had driven the few hours to Barrie.
My friend, Beth, stared at me. She didn’t ask me how I was. She’s far more pragmatic than emotional, and in that moment, I was grateful for her sensibility.
“How was the drive?” She simply asked.
“I got lost,” I said flatly. “But I made it. Is Olivia here yet?”
Beth shook her head.
“Can you let me know when she’s here?” I wanted to see my sister. She has always been a rock, and I knew she wouldn’t crack on me.
I started to walk around, to view the way the church had been decorated.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Someone mentioned to me as I stared at a photo collection of Tat.
I nodded.
“Apparently it’s decorated just like how she wanted for her wedding.” The woman smiled sadly then walked away.
I tried to swallow the ginormous lump that had just formed in my throat. Of course that was why the decorations looked so familiar — the flowers, the signs, the photos… they were all meant to be at her wedding instead.
I paused by her casket. It was in the middle of the large room, pushed up against the wall. It was covered in startlingly beautiful white flowers. Hundreds of them. I wanted to open the casket and peer inside, just to look at her one more time. I wished I could stare at her pretty face once more. Just to ensure everything happening was real. Just to solidify that she actually was dead. Part of me still wasn’t convinced.
There was a long receiving line that was leading to a smaller room in the back. A woman came up to me. “Hi Aliza, I’m Jen.”
“Hi Jen.” She looked familiar. I realized she was Tat’s mom’s friend.
“Tracy wants to see you. Want to come back with me?”
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see Tracy just yet. But I nodded. “Okay.”
We skipped the long line and she led me through another set of doors.
“Aliza!” It was Tat’s youngest brother, Jaxon. He gave me a wide smile and flung his skinny arms around me in a tight hug.
“Hi Jaxon,” I held him for a minute. I wasn’t sure what else to say.
When I looked up, I saw the rest of Tat’s family. There was Caleb, her other brother. Her mom, Tracy, and her dad, Scott, standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by people. And then there was Matthew, the man she was supposed to marry. He was in the corner, people talking to him. His big shoulders stooped and he seemed smaller than before.
Tracy’s eyes lit up when she saw me. I bounded over to her, wrapping my arms around her and Scott.
“I love your hair,” I told Tracy. Her hair was done the same as mine: half down, half up in a top-knot.
“I like yours too,” she smiled.
Her dad told me he liked my lipstick. “Red,” I said, even though that was obvious.
There were hundreds of other people waiting in line to speak to them.
“I’ll talk to you after, okay?” I said. We all nodded.
I dashed out of the back room, and started to walk, briskly, hoping to find a bathroom. Tears flooded my vision — I knew Tat’s parents would be there, but seeing them shook me to my core.
My body collided with someone. I looked up. It was Susan.
Susan was one of the head leaders who worked at camp when Tat and I were there. I clung to her tightly. I felt like a wounded animal with wild eyes staring up at her. Susan was no-nonsense. Immediately, I felt safe.
“Her parents—” I gasped.
She clutched my shoulders.
“Sue, her parents are here, and of course they’re here, but if they’re here she must really be gone—” My voice broke and tears poured from me.
Sue held onto me. She didn’t say much, but her grasp was firm and made me feel less breakable.
An endless loop of Taylor Swift songs played from the speakers. I could hear Love Story playing. Immediately, I flash backed to Tat standing in my green polka dot dress singing the song at camp years earlier.
People began walking into the sanctuary. I found Olivia. A group of us from church walked in and found seats near the back. I felt like I was buzzing. Everything in me was quivering. My hands, my knees, my lips. I would’ve bet all my vital organs were buzzing and vibrating too.
Scott had asked my brother-in-law, Mike, to read some Scripture. I looked at the program I held between my sweaty hands to double check the order. A few songs. Then Mike with Scripture. Then me.
At some point, Mike steered me to go down towards the front with him. I followed behind, and we found a few chairs closer to the stage. The sanctuary was packed. Everywhere I looked I saw people. There was even an overflow room somewhere else in the church for people who couldn’t fit into the auditorium. I couldn’t count the people. Later, I learned it was almost 1,500.
A worship band got up to play some music. They played Cornerstone, I think. Maybe In Christ Alone.
I could hardly sing. I started to cry. Mike turned to me. “Don’t cry yet,” he said kindly, gently. “You still have to speak.”
But I couldn’t seem to stop.
Mike and I walked up the large staircase to the stage. I didn’t realize her casket would be beside us, and as Mike shared some Scripture verses, I kept staring at the casket. I pictured her asleep, inside it. Two massive screens on either side of the stage played giant photographs of her face, and it felt like Tat surrounded me.
Please God, I prayed. Please don’t let me be sick. Please help me honour her.
When it was my turn to share my eulogy, I stepped up to the microphone. It was attached to a podium, thank God, and I clung to the pedestal for dear life.
“Scott said I could take as much time as I wanted,” I quipped. “So here we go.”
People laughed. Tracy said, “Oh boy,” from the front row. I smiled at her.
I stared out at the thousands of people my friend’s life had touched. I had always known she impacted people, just having a brief conversation you could gather that much. But here was tangible, physical proof: thousands of people had come to her funeral. It was a sea of bodies I could hardly see the end of.
I delivered my eulogy, citing a large portion of Tat’s blog. Nothing I could ever write or say would ever be good enough to encapsulate Tat. But I took a deep breath and tried. I will always be grateful Scott and Tracy gave me the chance to talk about her.
It was a long funeral, drenched in sadness.
Tat’s whole family spoke. Brianna and her parents spoke. Matthew spoke. Cyril — Tat’s prof, Matthew and Tat’s marriage counsellor, and the person who texted my dad about Tat’s death — gave a sermon.
At the end, Tat’s family shared how they wanted to play a song. Matthew is a musician, and he’d written a song for Tat. They’d been working on it together before she died.
The song played.
Halfway through, Tat’s voice rang out. They’d recorded her vocals a month earlier, and she was harmonizing the chorus alongside him.
She sang about love. About loving him better. About loving him always.
The room was silent and thick with tears.
At the end of the song, just when I thought I couldn’t take it any longer, another video played on the giant screens.
It was Tat saying yes to her wedding dress.
There were audible gasps and cries in the room. Her aunt moaned loudly a few rows away from me.
I had never before been enveloped in such sorrow; thousands wept watching the video.
Tat gave the camera a big smile.
“Yes!” She said, twirling in her dress. Her hair was pinned up, her wedding dress was white and sleeveless. You could see her video calling her mom in Peru. Her soft laughter floated throughout the sanctuary.
The video felt cruel — a sharp reminder of what would never take place.
And then it was over. Her family got up, and in a procession, they all walked down the aisle. There were many long minutes before anyone else moved. There was a thick cloud in the air — the anguish was palpable.
I stayed seated long after everyone had left. I could not stop crying and I didn’t want to go out into the hallway and have to make small talk over cheese cubes and egg salad sandwiches.
Someone sat beside me. I looked up. It was Susan again.
She handed me tissues and I blew my nose. I could already feel how swollen my eyes were from crying.
“I hated that video,” I told her.
“I know,” she said.
“And I—” my voice broke. “I didn’t expect to hear her voice. That was shocking.”
Sue was crying too.
We sat for awhile. Then she suggested, “Let’s go to the bathroom. You can wash your face.”
I nodded. We waited in line for the bathroom, then I put cool water on my cheeks and forehead. My head had already started to hurt from the tears. I exited the bathroom and went to find my sister.
The afternoon passed in a sluggish blur. There was Inca Kola, a sugary soda pop from Peru, and slices of cheesecake. Fruit and cheese and some sandwiches. I knew someone had put a lot of thought and intention into the spread because everywhere I looked I saw all of Tat’s favourite things.
I talked to people I hadn’t seen in years. Their faces all blurred together in my mind.
My sister’s boss was there. I remember seeing him, surprised he came. His thoughtfulness deeply touched me. I saw my brother out of the corner of my eye, but then he was gone.
People started to leave.
Eventually, the church was almost empty save for a few of us.
Danielle, Brianna, and I sat in small bistro chairs in the church cafe. We didn’t say much. I think Brianna’s brother came over and talked to us for awhile, but I can’t remember.
I told the girls, “I’ll be right back,” and then I left the church and got back into my hot car.
I flipped down the mirror, grabbed a tissue, and rubbed hard at my lips.
I didn’t want the red lipstick on any longer.
