Service No. 4 -- Jimmy Graham's funeral

James D. Graham died about a week ago, alone in his Fishtown home. He's the son of my father in law's older brother, and one of the most welcoming members of my wife's family. The Christmas after we got married, for instance, we sent out cards with our wedding photo on it, and Jimmy got me in the family pollyanna. In addition to the gift, he included a holiday photo of his own: it was him, passed out on the sidewalk with a bottle of Jack, one pant leg soaked in urine. On the card, he wrote, "What kind of people are you hooked up with now?" Apparently, he did a whole series of what he called "the bum pictures" and gave them out to everybody that year. That sense of humor made me feel right at home. It's something somebody in my own family might do.

Though the urine wasn't urine, and he was just pretending to be passed out, Jimmy did not take care of himself. He was unabashedly corpulent, a smoker, a drinker. To be honest, when my wife called me to tell me he'd been found in his house in Fishtown, dead at the age of 44, I was thrown but not at all surprised. It's like we borrowed some money from a friend, who said, "I'll just ask for it back when I need it." You're grateful for the help -- or for the time you had with this person -- but you know the end is going to come too soon.

There were tears, nonetheless, but I think the way Jimmy lived infused a more jovial tone to his wake and his funeral. I found out lots of things I didn't know about him, heard lots of stories about his days as a Korean translator in the Army and his life since. Jimmy was what I like to call "a good Democrat." A ward leader, he was very active in local politics and he worked for the City of Philadelphia, facilitating the welfare-to-work transition. Though his section of the city, Fishtown, is known as one of Philly's most racist corners, I was happy to note that his mourners were incredibly diverse, and great in number.

The wake was Friday night in Port Richmond, and the funeral very early Saturday morning, 10 minutes away by car in Fishtown. His father, my wife's Uncle Jimmy, asked me and a bunch of other people to be pallbearers, and I kind of wondered why he needed so many until I thought about it for a second. I've been a pallbearer a couple of times before, and usually it's taken six. There were 10 of us this time, and the casket was so huge that it was still dicey at a couple moments. I was glad to be able to help, of course. Honored even. The more I learned about Jimmy the more I liked him, and mourned him.

And then the eeriest thing happpened.

Kristen and I were in the car, in the procession, and listening to WXPN. As we drove through this close-knit section of this city, guys stood at attention on corners, hat in hands, watching the caravan roll past. And as we rolled up to the church the radio played a song called, of all things, "My name is James," by Randy Newman. Here are the lyrics I remember hearing:

There's a city that I dreamed of, very far from here
Very very far away from here, Very far away
There are people in the city, and they're kind to me
But it's very very far away you know, very far
They'll say James, James, James how are ya?
Isn't it a lovely day, James, James, James,
Were so glad you came here where we are, from so very very very far.

And it was a lovely day, and we were there to say goodbye to James, and to celebrate the fact that he came around for a while. Sometimes I think funerals are the truest thing human beings do.

The service was the first Catholic mass I'd been to in a quite a long time. I actually can't remember the one before this, but it might have been the funeral of my great uncle, Monsignor Richard Callahan, whom we all called "Unky." That was about nine months ago. In many ways, the last strings of my Catholic self were cut with his death. I long considered myself Catholic by ethnicity instead of belief, but he was a great and gentle man, and when he died I and many of the other members of my family found that our feeling of Catholic obligation died as well.

I sat near the front of the church, with my fellow pallbearers. Since I wasn't sitting with my wife, it was harder to take notes. She puts up with my scribblings as an extention of myself, but the other members of her family might not appreciate it, so I didn't have the freedom I usually do to make sure I remembered everything possible. So here are some things I do remember:

As a former altar boy and way-practicing Catholic, the mass is ingrained in me. If I just stand there, unthinking, the words of affirmation and worship will just leave my mouth of their own will. So I had to practice active non-participation. By this I mean I listened carefully to everything, and added my "Amen," or whatever proscribed response, only when I actually felt it. And I didn't say the prayers, or sing the hyms, or recite the Nicene Creed, and I did not take communion. That's the only moment of the experience that was at all awkward, because as I stayed silent through the liturgy, I looked around and was shocked at how few of the Catholic devotees actually did say the prayers and recite the creed. But they all took communion. Maybe they were just really hungry.

The altar boys in this particular church, Holy Name, had to kneel on bare marble. Ouch. I hope they were getting paid well to be there on a Saturday morning.

There was a co-celebrant, a deacon from South Philly who also happened to be Juan Ramos, a high-ranking member of City Council. Jimmy was not a personally powerful guy, but he was very close to power, which is almost the same thing.

I was amused to see way the priest sat in his chair, with his legs crossed neatly at the ankles underneath the seat just like we all did back in my days at St. Patrick's School.

The singer was what I call "a warbler," with that too-high wavering voice that old folks seem to find so beautiful. And another thing that was funny about the priest was that he wore a microphone and only chimed in on the singing when he knew the words by heart, which was seldom and sporadic. So the warbler would be warbling, the mourners murmuring, and every once in a while, the priest would broadcast one booming line and then go silent again. Nobody laughed, but I thought it was a riot.

His homily was unmemorable, and he's probably given it 100 times or more. He had it down pretty good, with no digressions or pregnant pauses. He did say one thing that struck a chord, and since I was pretty much indisposed to the entire message, I remember it without any of its context. Here's the line I stole a moment to write down: "God made us all to do the impossible." I thought about it and decided it's doctrine-free and worth believing in, no matter what the source. I'd like to think our job is to fire up as many small miracles as possible. The miracles of creation, reproduction, compassion, they all contribute to the collective, connecting godness that I usually believe runs through and binds us all.

And so, when a rousing rendition of Amazing Grace sent us back out into the cold, bright city morning behind this huge casket, I could feel the words in my heart. I was grateful to Jimmy for that, and when my wife came to me, sobbing, I cried too. It felt good, a justice done.