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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
Breaking Yokes 