Month: June 2026

50. Funerals, Part Two

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

A whole book of funeral related material could be written by any parish pastor who served (survived?) for more than forty years. Been there. Saw that. So, I’m writing the book. 

A shout out to the diggers, the people who actually do the burying. Most are employed by the local cemetery association. I’ve only come across one who does all the digging by hand, pick and shovel carving a seven by three foot hole, six feet deep. The little, tightly arranged plots in West Walworth made it impossible to get a backhoe in most location. Bless Norm’s soul.

Another shout out to the vault people, usually dressed in coveralls waiting at their truck parked nearly out of sight while family and friends gather. Once the hole is ready, they remove the concrete box from their flatbed, using a small crane. A small remote controlled tracked machine delivers the vault to the grave. They assemble a steel frame with rollers and belts above the grave. The vault is slid into place, connected to belts and lowered into the hole. The cover is set aside. Vault people set up the tent, lay boards around the hole, roll fake grass over everything, set up chairs. Hopefully, the weather is accommodating, though, not always. 

Clergy precede the casket into the sanctuary, and out when the funeral is concluded. We ride in the undertaker’s limo that precedes the hearse, leading the processional from funeral parlor or church to the graveyard. 

Shout out to the motorcycle escorts, in fair weather and foul, icy blizzards, pouring rain, and hot sunshine, who zoom ahead to block intersections, ensuring a smooth processional of cars, headlights on, to the cemetery. They are a sturdy bunch. 

The undertaker at the cemetery gives necessary paperwork and checks to the association attendant, wrangles pallbearers and removes the casket from the coach. Clergy lead the procession of pallbearers to the grave. If the corpse is heavy, I’ve seen many straining, gripping, hoping not to fall pallbearers deliver the casket to the straps held by the frame above the grave. Flower arrangements are placed around the casket by the undertaker and their helpers. The family follow, closest relatives given front row seats, everyone else standing in silent tribute to the deceased. 

The undertaker gives me a nod, indicating all have assembled. I step forward, open the prayer book, and begin. At most internments, as it’s known in the business, I wear my Alb and stole directly from the service. If it is really cold, I’ll put on a coat under my liturgical garb. Internments are short; no need to prolong the agony of grief. Just a few prayers, words of assurance, and a benediction. 

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. 

It has been my practice to stand quietly by the side while loved ones place flowers on the casket and say their final goodbyes. When all have left for their cars, the vault people begin their move. 

The casket is lowered into the vault, belts slid clear. The cover is lowered over the top, tongue and groove with an epoxy seal, nearly impossible to open ever again. The frame, tent, fake grass, and chairs are removed, and the digger begins to shovel in the earth. Rarely do family witness these final acts of mercy, but occasionally some do. 

I waited at my father’s grave, and my mother’s. 

—

Laps today were meditative and restful.

“Lord, Jesus Christ, Son of God: have mercy on me, a sinner.” Words synchronized with movement gives me serenity and peace. It removes the obligation of exercise to keep my mortal, aging body as healthy as I can be. 

Less rust, like the tin man left in the forest, leave me frozen and stiff. 

A good swim is better than oil.

—

I’ve seen a lot of things buried with a corpse over the years, some intentional, others, not so much. Some are symbols of insider information that only the donor and deceased would share. Some are funny, others are tear jerking sad. 

I buried a bullfrog once. It jumped into the open vault before the casket was lowered. Ironic, but the family had spared no expense and purchased the most expensive model on the lot, with a highly polished stainless steel liner. The frog croaked his tune during the internment. After the family left and the digger and vault people gathered, it was obvious no one was going to volunteer to remove the casket, get in the hole, and rescue the frog. The casket went down, the lid was sealed, and so was the fate of the bullfrog for all eternity. 

I buried more than one beer in my time. A lot of six-packs, pints, and fifths have also been slid into the coffin before it was sealed and locked. A corpse is forever, a beer is only good for twelve ounces, not that any corpse could take advantage of the gift. Bottles and cans have also been left in the cemetery, beside or upon the grave and stone. Usually the undertaker removes them discreetly after the family has left, less neighborhood kids descend. Sometimes it takes death to lead a person to sobriety, an eternal life that is happy, joyous, and free. 

I buried a beautiful mahogany coffin once, with a deep gouge left in its top. The rain and mud caused the hearse and procession to slide down the hill. Everything at the grave was slippery. When the vault people assembled after the family departed, one had his grip slip when he was removing the iron frame. It fell and deeply scared the casket. Being a distant cemetery, unfamiliar workers, and a long drive home ahead of us, the undertaker looked at me, bowed and shook his head. “If these were my guys back home, I’d make them take it out and pay for a new casket.” They weren’t. He didn’t. None were the wiser.

I buried a corpse once tilted on a slope. It had been a multi-day downpour and the ground was swollen with water. As the digger dug, water seeped into the hole. Thinking the cement vault was so heavy, it would sink to the bottom, remaining upright, the vault people lowered it into the partially water filled hole. One side caved in, just before the vault was set in place, leaving it tiled at a forty-five degree list. With no quick fix available and the family driving in the gate, they hoped no one would notice. After all, everyone just wanted to get to the reception, dry, and warm. No one did. The casket slid in, the lid was sealed, eternity on his side. Literally. 

I buried a lot of mother’s tears. It’s always emotional to celebrate the funeral and internment of a child. We think parents should age and go first, but it doesn’t always go that way. One baby had died from SIDS, or so the coroner determined, his tiny casket was easily moved by two pallbearers. The other baby had died in childbirth, the pain too much for either of the parents to attend. I can’t even imagine. Few of us can. 

I’ve buried a lot of photographs, jewelry, teddy bears, and military medals. It is always a solemn moment for the family to depart, the corpse to be cranked down (think like the seat in a car being fully reclined), the lid to be closed and locked with a special key that only an undertaker can own. As a clergyman, I always considered it my duty to watch the casket closed, giving assurance to the family that no theft or funny business took place. 

I buried one person twice. His wife had used his own handgun to dislodge his brains. Before one makes judgment, the bruises left around her neck would acquit her of homicide. The illegal possession of a firearm charge would stand, and she served her due time. Justice, I suppose, in an odd sort of way. I got a call from the undertaker a few weeks after the internment, asking if I would return to the cemetery for a second burial. “Why?” I asked. “The cemetery buried him in the wrong site. So, out came the vault, sealed with coffin inside, transported fifty feet to the new grave, where I said my piece, and the digger went about his work.

I buried a fireman with his working pager. The final call, made by an accommodating 911 dispatcher was the last anyone heard from that pager, batteries obviously now depleted, before being buried next to the corpse of its faithful owner.

I buried a patient of mine, a frequent flyer from my EMS days. A COPD sufferer from emphysema as a result of a lifetime of cigarette smoking. Her intoxicated son found her deceased with a burned down cigarette between her lips, oxygen still flowing from her nasal canula. She was cold and dead, blood pooling in her lower extremities. The son made his request for a funeral director from another town. The deputy sheriff didn’t want to hang around, so he left me in possession of the deceased. The undertaker arrived, a good friend of mine. I helped him remove the body, and off she went. Later that day he called and asked if I’d do the funeral. She had no church affiliation. My frequent visits as a medic on the ambulance apparently impressed her son. “Of course,” I responded, “It’s the least I can do.” She received the dignity and respect that was due.

I buried a few former medics in my time. The captain of the squad, who I greatly admired, was buried, as was his son, in the Reformed church where he was a member. Another medic who worked many calls with me was buried because he had no church affiliation. He was a loveable character, who always embarrassed us with foul body order and dirt under his nails. He always just skidded by with a minimal passing grade on his recertifications, but I loved him just the same. He was dedicated, worked hard, and we shared the shit together.

I buried two young men who died of drug overdoses. On both occasions the grief was deeply felt by all who loved them. I made it a point in my eulogies to tell the congregation that addiction was a deadly disease, yet, it could be successfully treated and managed, less such grief visit their own families. “Ask for help,” I encouraged. “There are a lot of professionals who will move heaven and earth to get you the treatment you need.”

I buried a COVID victim, though the family did not want it publicized. She died of natural causes, thus avoiding stigma and blame.

I’ve buried a lot of friends and family members, each beloved, each leaving behind a painful absence of life, love, and passions. One heart felt funeral was conducted at the chapel at the United Nations. Talk about pressure.

I’ve buried numerous people, co-celebrated their mass or service with colleagues from many different denominations and traditions. When it comes to death and grief, our difference in theology and polity doesn’t matter anymore. Everyone whose life I celebrated was done so with an attitude of thanksgiving. “Thank you, God, for sharing your beloved child with us.” Every funeral celebrated received Biblical assurance of a loving God, a redeeming Savior, and the promise of eternal life.

Eternity may be on some distant shore, I don’t know the specifics. God has never revealed to me such insider information. I only know that the God of my experience will care for my eternal soul in the same way I have been cared for all my mortal days. Grace. Love. Forgiveness. Salvation. These are the eternal signature of the Divine.

—

Undertakers have an amazing talent for absorbing grief. Those who act with professionalism and grace do well. Those who do not don’t last long in the business. They are the firsthand eyewitnesses of trauma and violence, yet go to extraordinary means to ensure dignity in death. They minister to every conceivable circumstance, children and the aged, spouse and divorced, functional and dysfunctional family members, sinners and saints.

The vast majority of undertakers I’ve been privileged to work with amaze me with their professionalism, dignity, and grace. Like in any profession, there are exceptions. Mostly, they work long hours, earn small margins, cater to the most demanding families, and pay out of their own pockets when a family has no money. I’m so grateful to God for the wonderful undertakers I’ve worked with along the way. 

Clergy have no fees for parish members, though most undertakers insisted on passing though honorariums. For non-church families, the going rate was twenty bucks when I started in the early 1980’s to two-hundred fifty today. It is awkward for many to speak about fees for service, but, I’m not shy. People should be paid for their service. When I add in my professional preparation, experience, one home visit, calling hours, leading the service, conducting the internment, and sometimes saying the grace at the reception, I think I’m worth it. 

One day I will leave this world, leaving behind an aging corpse. Trusted colleagues will celebrate my death and resurrection. In seminary one project was to plan your own funeral. I have repeated this exercise throughout my life and pastoral ministry. The liturgical rubric includes the prayer to live everyday prepared to die.

This, I have tried to do.

49. Funerals for Veterans

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

In the first week at my new parish I celebrated three funerals. Nothing says “welcome” quite like sitting bedside vigil, getting to know families, learning histories, and putting in place plans for special services. Welcome to Walworth! 

The money paid to me by the families was used to purchase a new stole, one with the faces of children woven into the fabric, symbolic, I believed, of one’s mortality replaced by new birth. Families deeply appreciated this simple act of kindness. Every time I wore that stole, I was rewarded with a smile or simple nod of the head acknowledging their loved one, the circle of life, and the community of saints.

Clergy, present company included, tend to consider a funeral as burying a corpse. Of course, I’ve never turned a shovel of earth or lowered the casket into the vault. As cremations became more popular over the years, burials were completed in much smaller holes, or scattered at some place that had been meaningful to the individual and their families. 

The smooth, seamless service for a family was writ large by the experience of the pastor and the cooperation of the funeral director. I was largely blessed with wonderful funeral directors, though there were a few exceptions. Economies of scale eventually forced out single family operations in small town New York. Consolidations and professionalization forced many individual operators to cut margins razor thin. Where this impacted clergy was a $20 honorarium and curt smile instead of the expected fifty bucks, which was the going rate in the late 1990s. “Thank you,” I’d respond back, wondering if the funeral director billed the family for fifty, but only gave me twenty.

I was fast friends with Mike, an undertaker taking over his father’s business. He grew up in the business, washing the hearse and limos as a kid. As his dad aged into retirement, he expanded by buying one funeral home and building another, all three in Western Wayne County. Mike appreciated the attention I gave to every family, even those he sent my way when there was no church affiliation. It was my habit to always visit with the family. 

First, we’d talk about the deceased, their love, passion, and journey through life. Most families would leave out sordid details, which didn’t interest me anyhow. Knowing a person allowed me to better tailor the funeral and eulogy, making it much more a celebration of life than the mourning of a death. 

Secondly, we’d spend time talking about the funeral service itself. It always made sense to me to create the service, within the constraints of The United Methodist Book of Worship, to meet the specific needs of the family. After all, isn’t that the purpose? There is much freedom to incorporate scriptures and hymns that hold special meaning. 

My eulogy always focused on faith; life, death, and eternal life. It is a way to place focus on thanksgiving and praise, for a precious life given to us from Almighty God. Confidence is shared in those sacred moments, that, through life’s ups and downs, good times and periods of pain or discouragement, God is with us every moment of every day, guiding and giving strength. A funeral eulogy often gives laser focus on a living, active God at work for our common good. A good eulogy also gives assurance of God’s promises, so poignantly stated in Psalm 23 and John 14. If you haven’t read these essential passages from the Bible in a while, give them a go!

Family comments at a funeral can be a Pandora’s box of the unexpected. A few techniques learned by experience can reduce the risk of failure, but can’t eliminate risk altogether. Although I don’t make hard and fast rules, the family visit can be used to assert strongly clergy suggestions. 

First, no open mics. “Would anyone like to say a few words?” Is an invitation for some perceived victims of dysfunctional family members, so-called friends, and former business partners to vent their spleen of resentments. I recall one such incident where a former boyfriend talked about their intimacy, going on and on, making the family squirm in their seats. Another came from a drinking buddy who recounted barroom antics and brawls. Not a good look.

Secondly, encourage the family to identify who should speak. This is often received as a honor, as a gift from one grieving loved one to another. 

Thirdly, encourage the speaker to write down their speech. Words have meaning. Chose every word with purpose. Each word is a gift from God and should be used with care. A written statement also can be handed off to another, or myself, in case the speaker becomes overwhelmed with emotion, as a funeral service is apt to occur. Lastly, a written statement limits time at the mic, avoids rambling into deep diving gopher holes, and keeps the service focused on praise and thanks. 

Funerals in the Spring, Summer, and Fall usually can be followed by immediate burial in a local cemetery. Burials in the dead of Winter are at the mercy of the local cemetery association. If digging was done by hand, burials were postponed until the ground thawed, which, those of us in the business called “Spring Planting.”

Sometimes cemetery officials wouldn’t bury in the Winter even though they had a backhoe, simply because they didn’t want ruts left from attendant automobiles. In local cemeteries that conducted Spring Planting, corpses and coffins were stored in an unheated blockhouse on cemetery grounds. Each had a central drain in the floor. Go ahead, use your imagination. 

I loved working with Mike. He was polished, respectful of families, and would go out of the way to honor special requests. He knew of my EMT background, so if he was short of manpower, he would sometimes ask for help for a removal. No problem; I’d just pull my ball cap lower over my eyes and avoided being seen by the family. All for the price of a cup of coffee and swapping of war stories. 

My one church in West Walworth had a cemetery directly across the road from the church. The association was populated by church members. Most of the deceased had been church members. Veterans from every war, from the Revolution to Viet Nam, were buried there. The church bought and placed an American Flag on every Veteran’s grave. 

Each Memorial Day Sunday, we’d complete the service, children from the congregation would carry a potted geranium in solemn procession across the road and disperse to every Veteran’s grave. A youth from church would be volunteered to play taps and I’d read in slow succession every name of every Veteran buried in the cemetery. We always gathered a crowd and boosted worship attendance. The community loved it. 

It was immensely satisfying. 

Then the cemetery association ran out of money. It wasn’t due to mismanagement, it was simply the fact they didn’t charge enough to pay the digger, hand crafted by Norm, who doubled as the code enforcement officer, and the cost of perpetual care.

Lawn mowing and landscaping, often taken for granted, cost real money. Associations across the State were going out of business, passing the stewardship of graveyards over to legally mandated Towns. Problem was, it took years for Towns to get their legal affairs in order to transfer deeds and responsibility to the taxpayer. 

Spring sprung and the grass grew tall. What to do? These were our people, I justified to the church board, layering on a veneer of guilt. We do what churches through the ages have done: we do the right thing. 

I supplied the Igloos and ice. Father’s and sons brought six packs of libations. Everyone brought their own mowers and weed whackers. One church member rode his John Deere lawn tractor two miles to the cemetery to get the wide open spots.

For a small rural cemetery, it took twenty of us a good three hours to cut, trim and whip the cemetery back into shape. We’d finish and tell tall tales over a cold beverage afterwards. We even attracted non-church members from the neighborhood to lend a hand and pitch in. It was community at its best. 

We kept up that beautiful, sacred burial ground for three seasons until the Town of Walworth took it over and sent paid contractors to replace us. We were happy to have the burden of perpetual care removed from our shoulders, but felt like we were losing a shared experience of respect and love. 

Well done, good and faithful servants.

—-

Laps today felt good. I was sporting a new blue spandex suit. Together with rocking my red Crocks, I made a very patriotic entrance from the locker room to the pool.

Or, I was a clown. 

Whatever. 

The chronic fatigue in my arms and legs were wrestled and wrung from tendons and muscles. Sharing a lane the entire swim, my lane mate was accommodating and kind. I tried to reciprocate with splash less strokes, hugging the lane marker. 

Fifteen and out, standing in a hot shower, watching the swirl of water circling the drain. Life in a glideslope felt good.

Entering the final third of life, an airplane’s glideslope is an apt metaphor for retirement. Confronted with the question, “is this all there is?” Has caused me to contemplate the years before me that will eventually end in mortal finality. Will the glideslope be free of crosswinds? Unexpected wind sheer? Free from confliction with another aircraft? To my Navy brothers and sisters, will the glideslope be in the dark of night onto a pitching deck? 

—

It has been a humble privilege to celebrate hundreds of funerals in my ministry, each a celebration of life, love, and legacy. Veteran funerals often stand out. 

Some have been modest. Countless veterans have been buried with only the undertaker and myself in attendance. A lifetime of homelessness or supervised living takes its toll. Addictions and poor choices leave people isolated from family and friends. PTSD and chronic mental health conditions can be devastating. The ninety dollar Veterans Administration provided cardboard casket was the punctuation at the end of life that still brings tears to my eyes. What can be said?

Thank you, God.

That’s what can be said.

Thanks to God should be on every lip at every funeral. For the life of humble service. For service to our country. Sacrifices for our land, community, neighborhood, families, and for our way of life. Thank you for defending a Constitution and its bountiful blessings. Thank you God; this individual gave to our grateful nation the most formative years of their young life. Thank you, God.

Taps is played. Guns are fired. The spend cartridges are lovely tucked in the Tri folded stars and stripes. A crisp salute by the American Legion honor guard. The sound of crushed stones under the tires of the hearse as we drive away. 

Some veteran funerals have been grand.

I’ve had the privilege to celebrate the life of a tanker who fought in the Battle of the Bulge, an ICBM missile commander who held nuclear Armageddon in the palm of his hand, a forward air controller who called in artillery and air strikes to cover American retreats in Korea, an Air Force wrench who spent his entire life in Viet Nam replacing aircraft tires, a sergeant who helped plugged the Fulda gap at the height of the Cold War.  

Every one deserved a flyover. With the missing man formation. 

I had the privilege of filling in for a chaplain at one of local nursing homes while she was out on maternity leave. It was easy to lead Sunday afternoon worship, to make rounds with the residents, lead weekly Bible studies, and to interview new admissions. It is easy to love people who are so grateful for your presence and attention. 

We got a new admission one day, a ninety plus year old veteran who was delighted to meet me. He absolutely beamed at me, seated in his wheelchair. After introductions and filling in the religious affiliation forms, we entered the sacred space called storytelling. 

He was a Korean War veteran, flying F-86 jets, fighting MIGs coming from China and the Soviet Union. After the war, he flew fighters with the local Air Force Reserve unit based in Niagara Falls, just an hour and a half down the road from Rochester. A native of the Finger Lakes region of New York, he was retired from a prosperous engineering firm and led a comfortable life, raising family, vacationing at a lake cottage on Keuka Lake. He was recently widowed and his adult children lived elsewhere. 

“One day,” he began bringing his hands together, “I was on a training flight and had gas to burn.” He could go home, landing heavy with jet fuel, or, he could have a little fun. He told me he banked into the turn, descending to about fifty feet of altitude and commenced a high speed run, South to North, up the center of Keuka Lake. He broke the sound barrier, he confessed with a wink and smile. He beat feet  back to base and went right to the squadron phone, placing a call to his lake cottage neighbor. 

“Hey!” He said into the phone, “anything exciting happening at the lake today?” His neighbor responded with agitation, “Some yahoo Air Force pilot just sonic boomed us!” 

Dang that was funny. His timing retelling the story was perfect. He had me rolling in laughter. 

He died in his sleep that night. 

And to think; he shared his story with me. Wow.

—

A parish pastor is often blessed with a wonderful youth fellowship group. Some led their group with resentment because no one else would step up. I always enjoyed leading youth, helping shape and form them into budding Christians ready to embrace college, military service, or the trades.  

Many have gone one to earn a terminal degree, a journeyman accreditation, or find promotion up the ranks. It is incredible to consider the hard work and long hours spent to make themselves into better versions, rising higher in experience and responsibility. Doctors, lawyers, veterinarians, professors, teachers, optometrist, nurses, firefighters, police officers. I swell with pride the fact that God brought our lives together for a time. You make me feel like a proud grandfather.

One of my former youth was killed in a motorcycle accident. No drugs or alcohol was involved; its thought he simply fell asleep after an all-night ride. To boot, I had recently celebrated the funeral for his father who died from Alzheimer’s. The former member of the youth fellowship was estranged from his wife and living alone. Don’t know. Life happens.

Yet, he had put himself through medical school, joined the Reserve, and became a General Medical Officer, a flight surgeon for the wing. In his free time, he started a not-for-profit free clinic for the large number of homeless veterans in his community. He was known to visit vets living under bridges and in tents out in the bush. 

What a life! And I was privileged to have him in my church and youth group when he was a child. He and the Apostle shared the same first name.

A service had been held in his base chapel, attended by the Governor’s spouse. He got a flyover of C-130s. I can only imagine in my mind’s eye how those huge aircraft performed a missing man flight. His Reserve unit was kind enough to fly his remains home. 

“Could you do his funeral,” his breaking mother asked. 

“Yes,” I replied. “Yes, of course. It would be my honor.” 

We buried his cremains next to his father’s in a sunbaked village cemetery. Taps were played. Rifles were fired. The shell casings were tucked into the folded flag, and it was presented to his mother on behalf of the president and a grateful nation. 

The mixture of gratitude, faith, and grief drained every ounce of energy out of me. I needed time by the railroad tracks; to wait, to watch, to listen. That day, the kingdom of God came close, oh, so close.

And I cried.

48. Honeoye Falls, Walworth, and West Walworth: Zion

~ toddgoddard ~ Leave a comment

Disability was not a destination. At least, not for me. Not now. It was respite, a temporary pit stop, a time to refresh, renew, refocus, to build back strength. Cynthia and I bought a house on the west side of town, and with the assistance of members of the Palmyra church, fire department, and family, we made the move. It was quite a sight to see my son’s backyard jungle gym on the back of Buddy’s tow truck, making the turn at the four corners. It nearly swiped the stop light.

We settled in. Made a nest. With no pressure, I was free to meet with my care team, get Christian on and off the bus to his pre-K special education program at Roosevelt Children’s Center, and to get Nicholas off to middle school each morning and welcome him home every afternoon. In between moving from Labor and Delivery nursing jobs, Cynthia worked a short time as a school nurse at Roosevelt, where she could take a more active role in Christian’s early childhood education. I’d answer a few ambulance and fire calls, but I began to slowly back away.

I didn’t need to add to the pile of traumatic stress. Over time, the pile needed to shrink.

Respite was found and tapped beside the CSX mainline. Each night, I’d park on the north side of Division Street, far enough away from the village to hear the crickets chirping in the summer, or snow gently falling in the winter. When squinting the ears, one could hear the distant horn and churning of diesel engines, nearly imperceptible at first, yet faintly present, taking time to build like an approaching storm. Watch; try not to blink, less the signal light, suspended by the rusted iron gantry, glow to life, granting engineer and conductor safe passage. In the quiet, I’d watch and wait.

Listening. Patient, actively listening for the still, small voice of God calling my name.

Got a call from one of the Bishop’s district superintendents (who would one day be elected Bishop himself) offering to take me out to lunch. The lunch was nice. His expense account picked up the tab. We didn’t talk about anything profound. He was truly caring about my life, call, health, and progress towards wellness. We parted with a smile and a handshake. Nothing more; nothing less.

Soon thereafter, a call came from the Rochester district superintendent, asking me if I wanted to cover the final three months of the year for a colleague who was out on medical leave. “I heard you were doing much better,” she said to me.

“Yes. Yes, I am. Thank you for the vote of confidence. I feel great.” I paused, thinking about who served in what churches where.

“It’s about a forty-five minute drive. It would be full time. The appointment would only be to fill in until the end of June. You’d be great.”

“I’ll take it!” I felt a wave of relief. God did have a place for me. I had a shot to reestablish my call to pastoral ministry. Within a week the Staff Parish Relations Committee (SPRC) met with the district superintendent and me and the announcement of the Bishop’s appointment was made official. Welcome to Honeoye Falls United Methodist Church.

I found a hurting church. I was on the mend. Together, we made a great team. God began to do great things with us. The family fell right in and we had a new church home. Over the course of those three months my confidence returned. It felt great being a servant, shepherd pastor. Nothing to encumber me, weigh me down, or bring distractions. Just kind, loving people who were just as eager to love me back.

Three days a week I’d spend time in my new church office, staying late for the occasional meeting, working from my laptop and cell phone, both marvels of technology that greatly assisted the work of pastoral ministry, constant companions for the later thirty years of ministry.

One Sunday I made a point of Jesus fishing for men (and women), using my fly fishing rod to whip a tapered line above the heads of the congregation. Toddlers and gray haired old ladies alike loved it. The visual demonstration served to weld into memory the value and importance of fishing for people to bring them into a relationship with Jesus.

The Memorial Day committee made it a point to include me in the Memorial Day parade and service at the cemetery. Prayers were said, the band played, a senior sang our beloved anthem. Prayers were spoken aloud with humble thanksgiving into a portable public address system. With three cracks, seven members of the local Legion fired in tribute to Americans loved and lost during time of war. Less we forget the pain of war, the message was crystal clear, let us always be cautious and reflective before the violence card is unleashed in reckless abandoned.  

“If only I could stay here, serving these lovely people,” I thought to myself.

But, it was not to be.

An aborted attempt was made to drop us into a city parish, one who didn’t like the changing neighborhood and rip tide of crime that was assaulting the region. The city school district was beset with waste and corruption, suffocating under a blanket of poverty. Health care and higher education took up the mantle of a shrinking middle class, even as Kodak, Busch and Lomb, and Xerox were fading away. The gap between the haves and the have nots was widening each year, and in the crevasse left between, crime and poverty filled the vacuum. As we left the meeting of a dying church longing for the energy of yesteryear, Cynthia and I were both in tears.

The district superintendent wasn’t naive. She saw clearly the parish killing dynamics at work. Thankfully, it wasn’t me. God’s grace allowed me to dodge a bullet.

Patience. Wait for the call. Have confidence. God has not let us down in the past. Something was bound to happen the Spirit was primed to move.

___

No pool today.

It isn’t as if I don’t have the time. I just don’t have the energy. It feels familiar like last year’s virus, or like prior fluctuations in blood chemistry, regular adjustments being necessary to keep me from nutritional Armageddon. Having the stomach removed and internal plumbing reconfigured will do that to a guy.

Time to call the doctor.

Growing up in the great depression, mom and dad would only call a doctor if death was imminent. By that time, what’s the point? at least that was my thought in middle age. Now that retirement has come and I’m riding the wave of Medicare, I can’t help but wonder.

Just when is it time to call the doctor?

Perhaps tests and scans fail to reveal the source of malaise? What then? I’m not a fraud, but what would the doctor think? Spend all that money, only to have it result in a shrug of the shoulders and the insincere assurance that “we’ll keep an eye out for any changes?”

The thought of crawling through the water with arms that hang heavy keeps me home with my head in a book. Friday will come, and with it, new medical expenses. With the new Medicare Advantage plan, at least the membership at the pool will be free.

—

We had not even lived in our newly purchased house for two years when we sold it for a loss. It was okay, the new parish had a parsonage, and it was only twenty minutes away.

Walworth and West Walworth: Zion were the answer to our prayers. We were much closer to Rochester than Roosevelt Children’s Center, so Cynthia resumed her Labor and Delivery nursing career at a large city hospital. She also enrolled, thanks to the generosity of her aunt, in a Master’s degree program at the University of Rochester to become a licensed, certified midwife, a mid-level practitioner of women and babies health care. Her call to the ministry of nursing was expanding and growing, opening new doors of possibilities. She was positioned to make a difference in the lives of many new mothers and families, many from the poorest neighborhoods. Nicholas was enrolled in the Wayne Central middle school and Christian continued in his early childhood education at Roosevelt.

Walworth, with the parsonage right next door, was the former Episcopal Methodist Church on the east side of town. West Walworth: Zion was the former Evangelical United Brethren Church on the, you guessed it, west side of town.

Zion had settled immigrant German families into lowland muck farms when America was fresh and new. Services were led in German until the first decade of the twentieth century.

Walworth people saw themselves as the sophisticated, educated members of town, an upper-middle class affluent suburb. West Walworth people reminded me they rode to school on an underpowered school bus during the great depression. East side; white collar. West side; blue collar. It was a town with two church cultures.

I followed a wonderful pastor and family who had served the people of this two-point parish for fourteen years. She did a great job. There was no way I could fill her shoes, so I tried not to.

As in prior parishes, I was blessed with two wonderful lay leaders. Jacque, in Walworth, drove a 1970’s era Lincoln, is a bra burning plank holder in the ERA, was a special education teacher for the Sisters of Mercy, and would, one day, retire from teaching and go the route of serving as a licensed local pastor. She knew where all the bodies were buried and was eager to fill me in on the details if it could further my ministry and the church.

Sharon, in West Walworth: Zion, was a recognized leader in church and community. She was the number two person at the local chapter of the Alzheimer’s Association, well connected in the United Way and Lifespan, and was a killer euchre player. Loyal, with no exceptions, Sharon would fight and die for the rights and wellbeing of others.

Now, that’s what is called amazing grace.

—

It was good to only move a short distance to start serving a new appointment. Neighboring school districts. Same funeral directors. Same hospitals to make calls. Same ecumenical clergy breakfast group. Familiar back roads. The CSX mainline was never far away, the distant crossing horn fading to silence on hot summer nights.

September rolled around. School sales abounded. Life in the parish began to tick up with the start of Sunday school. Worship was planned through New Years around a table that included Jacque, Sharon, and pianist and organ player. The Sunday evening praise band thought it was beneath them to plan. It smothered the Spirit, so they claimed. Perhaps it was the inability to sing on key. I don’t know; just thinking out loud.

Tuesday was crisp and clear. I rode my Yamaha to breakfast at the Yellow Mills Diner with my clergy buddies. As I zipped up my leather jacket to leave I overheard a stranger speaking with the cashier something about an airplane crash in New York.

CNN was leading with the headline of breaking news, showing a live shot of a burning, bellowing World Trade Center building making its last gasp. Reporters with head down and hand covering an ear, each brought a unique perspective to unfolding events.

From the left of the live frame flew another airliner, straight into the other twin tower, banked at a cruel angel, slicing through space and time, shrapnel flying, rolling fire like napalm. Horrifying. Instant death. It was an American trauma, sucking in all to the live broadcasts. Pentagon. Shanksville, PA. Combat air patrol circling above American cities.

“Uncle Todd? What are you calling me for?” my niece asked as soon as she picked up my call. “No time for questions. If you’re in Manhattan, get out now!” “But I’m at an audition for a Broadway play. I can’t leave.” “Run. Please run.” My brother, watching events unfolding in my living, room hung his head and prayed.

News slowly came in. Her uncle David, who taught at Columbia, and suffered from advancing Parkinson’s was last heard from near ground zero. He got out, made every human effort to get away, swept up in the dust covered frantic crowd of New Yorkers fleeing for their lives. He made it. Aunt Esther’s call was a huge relief.

Like most congregations across the land, people were devastated. Many had personal connections with the 9/11 attacks. Others were stranded in airports when airliners were grounded. Nearly everyone wondered: what was the next shoe to drop? And, where would it land?

Is this an act of God? Good? Bad? Evil? Whom should I believe? Whom should I fear. I felt in my bones the need to gather.

That evening we did just that. We came together, two churches as one. We prayed and sang, mourned and cried, recognized there are many more unanswerable questions than there were answers. It felt to me at the time that this would be the moment in history where society would begin a return to roots of faith, anchored deep in family and culture.

There was a surge in worship attendance, for a time. But that time was surprisingly short. In place of reflection, prayer, and discernment the cultural landscape and airwaves were quickly filled with talking heads and war-mongering commentators calling for revenge and  retribution. Instead of a message of love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, the message of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth was demanded by an angry electorate.

Thinking back, what could have the Church done differently leading up to 9/11 and in the days thereafter? So much of the effort in the 1980’s and -90’s was building and deploying programs for church growth, despite the fact that overall worship attendance continued to plummet like a rock.

Something new. Something shinny. Sign up for this program. Sign up for that. Get on board, or get left behind.

Then, boom. One bookend began with the fall of the Soviet Union and the end of the cold war. The other was defined by 9/11. In between was a peace dividend that never was, a nation dividing into rigid, non-compromising  ideologies, and a new definition for “sexual relations.” The world as we knew it came to an end.

Observing the bookends in one’s life is helpful for uncovering meaning, understanding, comprehension. “Ah, yes,” I say to myself. “Now I see.”

It’s time for a pipe.