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.