Gotta love the upfront-ness of Midwesterners. Last night was the funeral home visitation for Archie's family. I stayed there for 1.5 hours of it. I stayed close to Edith, kind of keeping a watch on her.

There were carloads and carloads of teachers who work with Archie and Edith's son who drove over 70 miles in the rain to come pay respects to Archie's family. That says a lot about the kind of family this is.

I'm guessing that teachers who are three days away from spring break and who have spent over an hour together in the car after a long day of work have kind of lost their politeness mojo. The evidence: I was asked at least 12 times last night, "Who are you?" Not "I'm sorry, we've never met, are you related to D?(the son)" Just "Who are you?"

It became my own parlor game after a while--I tried to guess who would ask me this question, then I would make up different answers in my head: "I'm Edith's bodyguard. I'm D's personal stylist. See D's very tall son over there? I'm recruiting him for University of Snow Belt basketball."

The thing is, I stood in front of my dresser mirror yesterday morning, after I had slipped on my very own brand new symbol of the patriarchy. I knew that wearing it would eliminate all those awkward questions. But when I looked at my reflection, I didn't recognize the person looking back. I wanted to ask "Who are you?" I took it off.

In three hours I will begin officiating at the Service of Witness to the Resurrection at St. Stoic. I will be safely wrapped in my Geneva Gown, wearing my white stole, carrying my Bible and my worship-leading notebook. No one will ask me who I am.

Including me.