During seminary, my pastorate of 30 months experienced one death in the congregation. The husband of the deceased lady said, “Pastor, do you know where there is a cemetery around here?” (We were in the bayou country southwest of New Orleans.) I told him, “I’ll find out.”
I called the pastor of the larger First Baptist Church of Luling, a few miles away. Don Grafton said, “Joe, I’ve been here 11 years and haven’t had the first funeral.”
He had no idea how to find the nearest cemetery.
That is the exception, believe me. Six years later, when I became pastor of the First Baptist Church of Columbus, Mississippi, if I remember correctly, we had seven funerals the first week or two. It was like people had “saved up” their dying until the new pastor was on the field.
I’ve buried them of all ages and situations. Once I did a double funeral for a 34-year-old man and his 64-year-old grandfather. Do the math real quick. How is this possible?
The grandfather had died ten years earlier and no funeral had ever been held. They interred his ashes inside the grandson’s casket. (The 34-year-old had been killed with an axe and stored in the family’s freezer. Police arrested his wife’s lesbian lover. Both women are serving life terms in our state penitentiary.)
The hardest funerals are for precious little children. Second most heart-breaking are for mothers who died giving birth. Next are the young fathers who leave behind a stunned and grieving family.
Nothing about this is fun. It all tears your heart out and shakes you to your core.
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