I drove for hours, mostly in the rain, to be at my aunt’s funeral mass a few days ago. Before I left I imagined a darkened church filled with incense and prayer and reveled in the thought of going deep into this spiritual realm to love her and congratulate her on her life well lived. I looked forward to the comfort of that darkness and the warmth of years passed in prayer, holding sacred the knowledge of God (Spirit).

The church stood as a neo-Gothic monument on the corner of a well-heeled neighborhood where Teslas zoomed from stop signs at the top of hills. I met my sisters on the brick steps among a dribbling stream of aged friends, extended family and ex-spouses: a freeze frame of my aunt and uncle’s 39 years together (a second marriage for her, his third). My ex and his wife of seven years walked up to convey their condolences, signaling to me they had become closer to my aunt and uncle than I ever had, of late.

Although there is no animus between us, seeing him, welcoming her reminded me of my time with him, when I felt un-loved. Clearly, in this new marriage she had brought out the best in him. While at her side he was soft and solicitous, without her and with me, his feelings and solicitations ended. He became appropriately cordial, saying the right things, asking the right questions but without feeling. He stood within the circle of my family, the one he seemed to have no real interest in during our marriage and made a show of it. I found myself feeling empty and robotic as I entered the church at the tail end of the “Goggio girls.”

Inside, I looked for sacredness—the stained glass windows, the ornate alter, the wooden benches. I found them cold. In this Catholic Church a bloody Jesus on the cross did not crown center stage. I found it devoid of feeling. At least a sculpture of Jesus on the cross or Mary cuddling a baby Jesus would evoke memories, break up hard emotions such that love could come out. The neo-Gothic design of the outside was repeated within but more spare and modern, I thought, missing the point.

The priest signaled for the casket to be brought in and I watched as my uncle, his friends and progeny carried my aunt’s body to a place in front of the alter and with gloved hands, they covered it with a decorative gold and white cloth. The priest began the service and I glanced over at my ex and his wife who sat to my left, the ex who declared before we were married that under no circumstances would he ever step inside a church. Not that I was a practicing Catholic at the time, I just found such a rule ridiculous, but he stuck to it. I went to his synagogue, learned Hebrew, took our son to temple to prepare for his bar mitzvah, but there he was, in this church, voluntarily, sitting quietly with his wife. I guess people do change.

I have to admit that his being there, to my left, distracted me. I kept wondering, does he think what the priest is saying ridiculous? Wrong? The priest started out the mass with a gospel that began, “Then Jesus said to the Jews…” and my insides went oh no! Don’t bring up the Jews! I couldn’t look at him, not now, not after Jews were mentioned, so I kept my face forward surprised to find myself responding with all the other Catholics in the church the phrases I’d learned as a kid (“Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Hosts…Hosanna in the Highest”). Mechanically, and without feeling, I said the words, words long ago memorized and gone dead for me. My sisters and I were together, saying them, and for that moment it was enough.

In the end, the gloved pallbearers scrambled out of the pews and lined up to carry out the casket while the rest of us tidily emptied out of the church, hovering at the entrance, stunned by the midday sun. I lingered on the steps asking myself what had happened to me—to my dream of a sacred moment wherein my aunt Connie was remembered and jointly loved by the hundred or so churchgoers. The funeral mass was over and the church emptied and I felt empty as well. Where was my deep well of faith? Where was my closeness to Connie? Where was my conviction that she had come to me the night before she died to say goodbye, a vision, a movie playing in my head of a afternoon in which we were together at a fundraising luncheon for Planned Parenthood that I had brought her to, a cause for which I felt strongly, and she agreeing to come, not because she approved of abortion but because she supported me. When I heard she’d passed away early the next morning I knew she had come to remind me of that afternoon, and I felt so much love for her, for her gracious and loving act.

I’d lost all of that in the church, the ceremony, the presence of my ex-husband and his wife. So easily I lost my faith, my knowing that God (Spirit) loves all, irrespective of religion or lack of belief, that God (Spirit) is ever present, not necessarily in sacred ceremonies or in special, sacred places, and that all persons dead and alive are with us, forever. And then it got worse.

We decided to go together to the cemetery to be at her “burial,” actually, placement into a vault within a mausoleum, the same place as my father and grandparents. We raced over there hoping to catch up to the hearse in order to know which mausoleum she would rest in, none of us could remember our father’s location of internment. We drove all over the large cemetery with no luck. Cousins called cousins on cell phones to pinpoint the location and to meet up at the right mausoleum. In doing so, we missed the “ceremony” with my uncle’s nuclear family and the priest. With tears in their eyes and a bank of empty chairs placed beside the casket, they left us there to drift through the halls searching for our father and grandparents. Finding them, the prize felt unearned. With a few cousins in tow we resolved to have lunch together before parting for another several years, the next funeral. The last one was much more painful—a suicide. This one was a blessing.

We ate like starved pilgrims, ordering food we never eat and talked honestly about our lives—the first time I felt a connection that day. It satisfied my hunger for relevance, it was a celebration of love, this gathering, and assuredly Connie was there seeing it all, smiling at this intersection of love and hunger, to end this important day—my faith once more restored, my love for Connie still alive in me.

Annette Goggio, MPH, EEMCP, holds graduate and undergraduate degrees in the health sciences and is the author of Healing: A Conversation. Her practice in energy medicine is based on the teaching of Dixie Yeterian, renowned clairvoyant and healer, and Donna Eden of Eden Energy Medicine. To learn more, please visit www.aquantummoment.com.