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I recently had a person (who shall remain nameless) remark on how much she loved my blog. She then went on to provide me with her philosophy on blogging. She told me that she thought it was so “pretentious” of “all these people” who blog about these really deep topics and try to pretend like they’re teaching a lesson or something. In response I told her I thought it was pretentious of people to blog about what color they’re painting their wall or a weekend recap in which they recap nothing at all or an update on their weight loss progress. I’m not sure if this person was trying to call me pretentious, but I figure I’ve been called worse.

In honor of a lover of my blog, here’s a very pretentious post about death.

Last Thursday I attended a memorial service (different than a funeral I found out) for one of my relatives. I hate funerals. I knew that going into the day. I also found out that I hate memorial services. I know, I know. You’re thinking that it’s not anything too unique to dislike funerals. I get this, but I really hate funerals. As I sat in the front row of Eastside Baptist Church I started to realize why I hate funerals so much. Aside from the obvious and most dominant reason (someone has died that I was obviously connected with in some way), I think I also hate funerals, because it is an in-your-face reminder that life is flying by right in front of your face.

As I generally do when I attend a funeral, last Thursday I found myself trying to occupy my mind with something other than depressing thoughts about the loss of a loved one. As I sat there looking at flowers and critiquing Christmas decorations and considering how uncomfortable my shoes were, I realized that Eastside was the setting for one of the most vivid memories I have from high school. Early in high school I saw a band called Stephen Speaks perform in the exact same sanctuary where the funeral was held last Thursday. For some reason I remember everything about that night. I remember what jeans I was wearing. I remember who all was there. I remember where in the sanctuary I was sitting. I remember everything about that night. I have been in Eastside twice in my life. Once for that Stephen Speaks concert and once for the funeral. I found myself (in an attempt to detach myself from the terribly sad commentary that is often found at a funeral) thinking back on all the tiny details of that night in high school. I literally felt like I was remembering someone else’s life. It felt so long ago to me. The teenager sitting in the first pew of that church seemed completely foreign to the adult that was sitting in that first pew years later.

I feel like people (or maybe it’s just me) remember their lives in decades. I have a pretty good grasp of who I was up to 10 years ago. Beyond 14 years old memories almost feel inaccessible to me now. For example, I don’t remember what I looked like when I was 12. I remember very little of the small stuff from years and years ago that I still remember about high school. As I considered that night with Stephen Speaks years ago, something a switch flipped inside of me. I didn’t want to be sitting in that pew at that church last Thursday. I didn’t want to have to remember who I was as a teenager. For a few moments I wanted to be a teenager again. I was frustrated and sad and there was depressing music already playing. People were crying (I assume for the loss of a loved one) and then it hit me…
I don’t hate funerals solely because of the pain caused by losing a loved one. I hate funerals because they’re a reminder to everyone that time is ticking. It took a sunny day in 2010 to bring me back to a night years ago when things were simpler. As I scanned the room last week I realized that there is hardly anything left of that kid at the Stephen Speaks concert. I was sitting next to my husband. My family was there, yes. But it was an older, different family than I knew years ago. The whole situation was different than I wanted it to be. Discomfort in my reality often times makes me think back to the safety of my past. Things were good at that Stephen Speaks concert. Although I am certain that if you could talk to Katy Schrodt circa 2002, she would have plenty of issues and complaints about her present situation (would that not be awesome to be able to talk to a younger or older version of yourself?). Things are always different once you have enough time to find a place for them in your memory. I hate change. I take comfort in the routine of certainty. Unfortunately, as is evident by funerals of loved ones, very little is certain. That’s a bummer. It’s a bummer for 24 year old me and it was also for the teenage me. Maybe less has changed than I think.

By the time I walked out of the funeral, I had pretty much come full circle (in my defense it was a long service). I got caught up in the suckiness of a funeral. There is nothing good about it. I realized that my life is going to keep on moving regardless of whether or not I want it to. Since then Cody and I have decided that we want to go to Europe this summer and sow our wild oats. So maybe that’s the good in remembering someone else’s well lived life. Maybe it helps the rest of us to remember to keep on moving.

Take that, you non-pretentious blog writers.