Gregorio Luis Hernandez. We all called him Poppy. At 92 years old, he had a good run. You know the scene: fresh cut flowers, black dresses, folding chairs, cigarettes and teary mascara. And in this case, a mariachi band strumming Poppy’s top 40. I was asked to pluck the melody of Solamente Una Vez as the pallbearers carried the casket from the chapel to its lowering device.
In moments like these, certain questions surface hard. Where is he? Is he anywhere? Is Poppy in the ground, 6 feet under? Or is he in a place “somewhere else” called “heaven?” If so, what does that say about Poppy’s humanity? What does that say about mine? Am I a body, and no more… just flesh and blood and chemical processes? Or am I really just a soul in a body. And if so, what on earth is a soul?
As for Poppy, what did death actually do to him? And what does he have to look forward to?
The answer most Christians (and Christianized Westerners) reach for: He’s in heaven. His soul is with God. He’s at peace.
Which sounds right. Mostly right.