It starts with the kind of call you never want to answer. “She’s gone.”
Just like that — no thunder, no music, just silence so loud it fills the house. Grandma, the woman who could silence chaos with a glance, is gone.

In our small town, funerals are sacred. They are about love, not ledgers. Or so we thought. Because before we even finish printing the funeral program, the church elders are already calling. Not to pray, not to console — but to discuss “arrangements.”

When the Holy Turned Hustler

They arrive wearing long faces and longer robes, clutching notebooks like accountants from heaven. The committee chair clears his throat and says, “We thank God for Mama’s life… but you know, things must be done properly.”

Properly, it turns out, means payment. There’s a “fee” for the pastor, another for the choir, and an “offering of appreciation” for the committee itself. Then comes the bold request — a share of the contributions raised “for the work of God.”

I look at them and wonder, is grief supposed to be this expensive?
Because it feels like Grandma’s soul is stuck in line, waiting for approval from the church treasury.

Grandma Would’ve Laughed — Then Scolded

If she were here, Grandma would have laughed that deep, unbothered laugh of hers and said, “So even heaven’s gate needs a receipt now?” She was the kind of woman who gave freely — her home, her time, her prayers. She hosted the same committee members when their children were sick, fed their choir during endless rehearsals.

Now they stand before her coffin with calculators. Counting. Whispering. Negotiating the cost of blessing the dead.

The irony is sharp — the same church that preaches “store your treasures in heaven” seems to be running a side business on earth.

Faith for Sale, Comfort Extra

We are sitting under the tent, sun burning our necks, tears already half-dried, when another committee member comes to remind us — politely — that the offering basket will go round twice. “One for the service, one for Mama.”

Mama. The woman who built that very church from the ground up, whose hands once polished those pews. The woman they now charge to bury.

I am staring at the collection bag like it’s mocking me. Faith used to be free. Prayer used to feel like love. Now, it sounds like an invoice.

The Dance of Holy Business

They are reading her eulogy — beautifully written, full of praise and memories. But the tone changes when they announce the contributions. The microphone crackles, the mood shifts, and suddenly grief turns into competition.

“Family of the late Mama — Ksh 38,000.”
“Mothers’ Union — Ksh 21,000.”
“Church Committee — Ksh 12,000 (to be refunded after deductions).”

I can almost hear Grandma’s voice in my head: “They’re refunding blessings now?”

The choir sings louder, perhaps to drown the sound of money rustling through envelopes. Somewhere between “Amazing Grace” and “Rest in Peace,” the holiness leaks out.

Grief Meets Greed

That night, we sit in silence. The family is exhausted — not from mourning, but from managing. The committee has taken its cut, the receipts are signed, and the church account is balanced.

But something inside us isn’t.

It’s not about the money — it’s about the dignity that got lost between faith and finance. About how grief has become an opportunity, and love now comes with terms and conditions.

They’ll say it’s tradition. They’ll say “it’s how things are done.” But deep down, we all know — we’ve turned funerals into fundraisers and devotion into demand.

If Heaven Kept Accounts

I wonder if heaven has a ledger too. If angels wait for the confirmation of payment before opening the gates. If Grandma is up there shaking her head, muttering, “So this is what you people have become?”

Because maybe, just maybe, faith was never supposed to feel like a business meeting. Maybe goodbye was supposed to be holy, not itemized.

And maybe — just maybe — when the church learns to comfort before it counts, Grandma will finally rest in peace.