How Japanese Food and a Funeral Brought us Together

I remember so vividly everything about my grandfather's death. The fight for his life against cancer that was prolonged by useless treatments, the trips my dad would take to make sure he was able to say goodbye, were all a part of the process. It was a heart-wrenching time for all of us. I remember laying in bed with my parents crying when we heard the news of my grandfather's cancer. Through the painstaking two years, we were all on edge, wondering if anything would help Grandpa. Each time he went to the doctor, my grandmother would call so we would pray that maybe this treatment would work. Nothing ever worked. After unsuccessful attempts to save our beloved grandfather, he died in December of 2002.

However, the worst part, by far, was the visitation,where what seemed like hundreds of people came to see Grandpa on display and to comfort the family. Visitations are an entirely useless event; no one ever truly desires to attend a visitation, and no one is ever actually comforted there. At the end of it, I remember seeing my grandmother in hysterics and I just stood there, watching tearfully. Then, in the very last few minutes, my dad decided to announce that everyone was invited to a post-visitation dinner at Shogun, the local Japanese hibachi restaurant.

The inside of Shogun, taken from http://www.restaurantshogun.com/history.php

     My paternal side of the family is not exactly involved in the typical domestic household activities, including cooking. None of us were expecting a huge homemade dinner after the visitation; in fact, none of us even felt the need to eat at such a time. Also, our immediate family almost never saw our cousins on this side of the family. We never spoke, wrote, or communicated at all with those cousins. Yet, off we went to Shogun, an interesting choice since our family never eats Japanese, with a party of roughly thirty-five people, all ready to celebrate the death of my grandfather. The whole car-ride to the restaurant was a complete blur, filled with my sister and I trying not to burst into tears while my mom made awkward small-talk with my dad.

At this point, it is important to note the incredible diversity of people attending this dinner. There was the family, a small group of four grandchildren, four parents, and one very upset Grammy. Then the family friends, my dad's friends from high school, and lastly, random people from Alpharetta who drove down to Florida for my grandfather's funeral. I recall looking around the room where we ate, wondering if these people understood how unusual this dinner felt. It is hard to say if anyone truly desired to be there. My sister, SarahAnn, and I somehow ended up sitting far apart from each other, which rarely happens. To do this day, I still dread being separated from my sister during meals with people other than our immediate family. Consequently, I sat between my dad's best friend Mike and my own friend Kelly.

Honestly, I do not remember much about what we actually ate that night at Shogun. In fact, the only thing I remember, as far as food goes, is that Kelly and Mike both ordered sushi, which is completely irrelevant. The important part was that we were all together- an odd mix of family, friends, and those who were strangers to me. It was the only time that all of those people would ever be in the same room. Kelly and Mike, from completely different places in the world, will never sit on either side of me ever again. It was a rare opportunity for healing.

Towards the end of the meal, some of the men decided to have a competition to see who could pay for dinner. Amidst all of the attempts to catch the attention of the waiter and grab the check, I came to a realization. It became obvious in that moment that the people who came to the visitation and the dinner afterwards were not there because they were hungry. The attendees were present because they loved my grandfather and because they loved, and still love, our family. They deeply cared about the situation our family was in, and desired to help us get through it. Most, if not all, wanted to see our family come out of this awful tragedy as a stronger unit.

The restaurant itself, the food, and the purpose for which we were there was negligent. It was the only time during that whole week of preparations for Grandpa's funeral that I felt like I could heal. We all healed. It was as if we could all lean on each other, and no one needed to say anything to make things better. No one needed to cook for us or send us flowers; we all just needed to be together in a place and eat.

In a conversation I recently had with SarahAnn, she brought up this particular dinner. She wondered why dad had ever suggested for us to go out that night. His idea seemed so misplaced, so rude. However, we decided that eating was the best possible idea for that night, and perhaps our dad had received some divine wisdom. When one considers the alternatives for that same night, mourning and playing scrabble do not even compare with eating at a random restaurant and being able to fellowship with people you might not see again.

Numerous other meals occurred during this time. People seem to always bring food when people die, which is confounding because no one mourning a death is focused on their next meal. However, our meal at Shogun was the most meaningful meal of my life solely because it brought together so many areas of my life. I may not ever see most of those people again. In fact, I have only seen my cousins once since this particular dinner, six years ago. It was God's way of putting us all together, perhaps for one last time, in order to heal and strengthen us. Food brought our family, friends, and those who loved my grandfather together, even if only for a moment.

My paternal grandmother and cousins; this is our last picture together.