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After I had been away at college for awhile, my mother seemed to develop a need to call me whenever someone in my hometown died. While I was in college, these announcements always started, “Do you remember…?” I would usually answer “no.” Mom would then name someone that I had gone to school with and say the deceased was his grandmother or her grandfather. While I usually remembered the names of the people that had gone to school with me, I was not always able to recall the person who had just died. Rockwood is a small town. Strange as it may seem, even in a small town there were people that I did not know.
Sometimes when Mom would call to tell me that someone had died, she would inform me that I was related to the person. Not that I was related in an immediate family sort of way, but in a more distant way. Mom would try to explain, “Your daddy’s cousin was married to her uncle’s son’s daughter,” or something like that.
As the years passed, I grew accustomed to Mother’s updates. In the early years, death seemed like a distant notion. It was not something I wanted or needed to think about much.
The biggest adjustment in the time I spent thinking about death came when I was called to be pastor at Holland Baptist Church. By the grace of God, I never had to deal with the death of a young person while I served as a youth minister. As a pastor, death was no longer just part of the update from Mother about my hometown; death and comforting those who were dealing with it was a part of the ongoing work of pastoring a church. Thankfully, church members do not die every week. Yet death touches even a small church more often than you might think. A friend or family member of someone in the church passes away, bringing grief and sorrow to those in the church who knew and loved that family member. Someone in the community passes away that everyone in the church knows and that death has an impact on the church.
The first funeral I preached at Holland Baptist Church was not for a church member. It was for a church member's brother. I had not known him nor did I know his wife. In fact, I had not been at the church long enough to know anyone all that well. It was a short service. Afterwards, people told me that they thought it must be difficult to preach a funeral for someone that you had not known. I agreed with them.
Little did I realize at the time that getting to know people would not make doing their funerals any easier. No, in fact, it would only make them more difficult to do. Knowing someone means that you have more stories to tell about them. Knowing someone means that you have some idea about what mattered to a person, what was important to him or her. Knowing someone means that you have had more time with them and that without realizing it or deciding to do it, you have started to love that person.
When you get the news of his death, then you realize how much you loved him. When you hear that she has passed away, you awaken to what she had come to mean to you. In the midst of receiving such news, you are aware of what a gift it is to have known him. You give thanks for the opportunity to have loved her and to have been loved by her.
Gail Bridger called me last week. During my first year at Ball Camp, I went back to Virginia to do two funerals. Gail’s father, Percy, was one of those. I had not seen or heard from Gail since her father’s funeral. She called last week and said, “Ed, this is Gail Bridger.” I started to speak, but I could not. There was only one reason that Gail would call me. Before she said another word, I knew that her mother, Alice, had passed away.
What a special lady. I can still hear her calling my name — “Ed Sunday-Winters” — like a mother addressing an errant child. She had a delightful way of getting my attention and speaking to me with frankness and candor. I always heard in her words a love for her church and for her pastor.
Her grandson, Brian, played baseball at the same field as my son, Joshua. Brian was a little older than Josh, but Josh knew him. I am sure that Josh would remember him and he would probably remember Miss Alice as well. I suppose I should call him.
Joy and peace,
Ed
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