Central America (5)
Honduras: A Wake
Follow these articles in order to get the chronological tour of Central America. San Pedro Sula | La Ceiba | Sambo Creek | Around La Ceiba | A Wake | The Dump | Nicaragua
Steve Dennie
January 1997
Next door to the mission house, we had been told, an elderly lady was near death. Archie Cameron had been asked to conduct her funeral.
On Saturday afternoon, I heard people singing hymns next door. In English. This lady was a black, and many of the blacks, we were told, originally came over from the Caribbean islands; if you need someone who speaks English, someone instructed, look for a black.
I walked into the street and stood in front of the house. Several blacks were there. One of them invited me to go up onto the porch which ran across the entire front of the house. There were two front doors, screened, set widely apart. I peered through the one on the right, and there lay the woman on a hospital bed, unconscious, clearly near death, her eyes closed and mouth open. Several women and a man sat around the bed holding Bibles or hymnals and softly singing hymns with a heavenly emphasis. I watched for a minute or so, then left.
At 10:00 that night, after we had returned from the evening service, we
heard people singing "When We All Get to Heaven"--this time loud and joyful.
We immediately assumed that the woman had died. No death-watch fare--this
was victorious, exuberant singing, with many voices and piano accompaniment.
Song after song followed. They did "I'll Fly Away" with a Caribbean sound, with parts you'll never hear State-side. "The Old Gospel Ship" sounded
superb. On and on.
About 11:30, my curiosity led me back to the house. I stood in the street with two black men, just listening. I didn't know how many people were inside--had to be a bunch of them. I recognized most of the songs, but the people sang them with parts and tempos and all sorts of extras I'd never heard before. Wonderful singing.
Finally, I turned to a young man, probably in his 20s. "Did the lady pass
away?"
"Yes," he said.
"When?"
"About 8:00," the other fellow answered. They were holding a wake, he explained.
"How long will this last?"
"All night."
"It's beautiful singing," I said.
"Don't they do this where you come from?"
"No. I wish they did. It's so joyful."
They asked where I was from, and I told them. The first guy said he'd been living in New York City for the last seven years, and was just back visiting.
"Are you a Christian?" he asked me.
"Yes."
"Good."
He invited me to go up and have a look. I said I would feel like I was intruding. But my curiosity prevailed and I headed up the porch steps. Five or six people sat on the porch. An older man at the head of the steps smiled and motioned me toward the door on the right, which I had looked through earlier that day. Now, I had to squeeze around a casket waiting on the porch.
The woman was in the same place on the same bed, but you could hardly tell it was the same person. She now wore a beautiful, full-length pinkish gown which was tied behind her neck. Her hands, crossed on her stomach, held a small bouquet of red and white flowers which stood straight up. A net bonnet with white flowers covered her head. Her mouth and eyes were closed. She looked so peaceful, so pretty.
Nobody else was on that side of the room. The wake choir--a dozen or more
people; I couldn't see them all--sat on the other side singing and clapping.
I was pleased to hear them sing "The Unclouded Day," written by a UB minister.
The singing continued all night. I awoke just before 6:00 Sunday morning
to the sound of "I'll Fly Away." They did every verse, and then stopped.
The wake was over.
The woman was buried that afternoon.
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Next: Part 6
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