Late Again!

This past week I had to make a quick trip back to Minnesota for the funeral of my Aunt Helen. I have missed many funerals over the years including my grandmother’s and my grandfather’s. It was privilege to be present for this celebration.

When I was in high school I would occasionally (okay… fairly often) miss the bus. Mrs. Binder, the long-suffering driver, waited for nothing or no one. Because of that, I had to hitchhike the 18 miles to school. Rides in rural Minnesota were not always easy to find for a long-haired young man. Many times I arrived after classes had begun. Late in that school meant I needed a permission slip. Aunt Helen was my reliable source of written excuses.

Helen would not lie for me. I am not sure she could lie. She simply wrote, “Woody missed the bus and is late. Please let him in. Helen”. That was all it took. They never turned me down.

In July Susan and I had the privilege of visiting with Helen in the hospice care facility where she spent her final weeks. Although the tumor or treatment had already taken her vision, she was very alert. I entered the room, reached for her hand and identified myself. The first thing she said was, “Oh, Woody! Do I need to write you an excuse, again?”

It was hard to be at Helen’s funeral… and very good. I am told that 500 people came to the visitation. The actual service was attended by over 300. This included at least five people that were in my small, graduating class. I wonder if she wrote excuses for them, as well.

In our years of living in Latin America, I have been asked to perform a number of funerals.

The first funeral I ever did in La Paz, Bolivia went without a hitch. Well, at least until I said the final prayer at the cemetery. After I said “Amen” nothing happened. Everyone continued to look at me. So, as a way of giving people permission to leave, I informed the crowd the service had ended. Still, nothing happened.

Finally, one of the young men assisting me said, “Don Woody, the pastor always closes the casket.” I looked down at the wood screws in the top of the cheap, wood coffin. “Okay. Who has the screwdriver?” “Woody, the pastor always brings the screwdriver!”

It took a long time to get all those screws tightened using a five peso coin.

Once in Bolivia, I preached a funeral for a lady who wanted to be buried in her drive-way. I am not making this up! The family insisted those were her final wishes. However, I must admit the son-in-law seemed especially encouraged by the prospect of driving back to what was going to be his new home every day.

Once I had the terrible responsibility of informing a sister that her adult brother had died. One hopes that when a pastor shows up at the front door at 10:00pm dressed in a dark suit and carrying a large, black Bible that people will prepare themselves to receive bad news. That is the theory anyway. On this occasion the sister was so shocked by the news I gave her
that she struck me in the face with her fist and split my lip.

Preaching a funeral looking like you have been in a bar brawl is not the easiest task in the world.

Just before I was informed by telephone of my aunt’s passing, Susan and I listened to a song that had already brought tears to my eyes. The words go:

I want to stroll over Heaven with you some glad day
When all our troubles and heartaches are vanished away
Then we’ll enjoy the beauty where all things are new
I want to stroll over Heaven with you.

I am at a place in life where I look forward to “strolling over Heaven” with many loved ones that have gone before.

My grandfather and I were pretty close. He could be very gruff, but I believe he loved me. Several times I have imagined him meeting me upon my arrival in heaven. In my mind I see him leaning forward slightly with his hands in his pockets, looking at me and saying, “You’re late. What took you so long? You going to waste the whole day?”

Hopefully, Helen will still be able to write excuses for her nephew.