One of the very large hospitals in Cleveland, Ohio would host a big grief conference every year. It seemed like every funeral home in North East Ohio would be represented. Held in the conference center, the auditorium would seat at least a thousand people, the book area had dozens of tables loaded with books and the dining hall had food that was out of this world. The first two years I worked at the funeral home there were three of us who went. The third year I was by myself. I was so excited about going that first year. I always want to learn new things and I figured I needed all the help I could get. All my counseling classes in college and seminary dealt with the full array of counseling. But this was just on grief.

         I was disappointed in that first year. It seemed that the speakers were disconnected from the grief issues I faced all the time. I said as much to the owner of the funeral home a few days later. He assured me that the next year would be better. Needless to say, I was not really looking forward to year two.

         Year two came and again, it just didn’t feel right. The speakers were very learned. They had critically acclaimed books out on the tables. Tey had long lines of letters after their names. They were dressed very nicely. But I came away from the experience with a heaviness, as though I had wasted my time. I didn’t want to feel that way. I didn’t want to feel as though I thought I was better somehow, than these highly credentialed speakers.

         Year three I returned. I tried to talked the owner out of it, but he was insistent. The other two who had gone with me before were soon to retire, so I was by myself. I took a seat well in the back of that huge room and waited for the ‘fun’ to start. There was the usual line-up of people who had amazing careers and all manner of insight into grief. I squirmed and shifted in my seat and waited for lunch to get there. Just before the lunch break the facilitator of the event announced that a particular gentleman who was to speak to us that afternoon had been bumped from his flight from Boston and would not be there. I had never heard his name, but the others had. Groans filled the room. The facilitator raised his hands and everyone quieted down. Taking his place would be a grief counselor from a local funeral home. Folks looked at each other with puzzled looks. Apparently, they did not recognize the name. In the hallway I heard one woman huff to another that she had paid good money to hear someone knowledgeable. She was going to get her money back. I just shook my head. I figured this new speaker could not be any worse.

         He was awesome. I think he had a four year degree in psychology. Certainly not as impressive as the high paid people. He worked for a funeral home rather than a prestigious university. He was uncomfortable in front of the large crowd instead of being arrogantly sure of himself. But he spoke of going into a home at one AM and talking with a shocked and grieving widow. He shared about talking to a ten year old about why his daddy committed suicide. He talked about the young parents whose baby died of SIDS (sudden infant death syndrome). He talked real world situations.

         He was not well received, but I went up to him later and thanked him. He had given me more in his fifty minutes than I had gotten in three years there. A good man doing an honest work.

         Just in 2020 in our church family, we have lost Dan Haupert, Lois Haupert, Esther Wagner, Barbara Speicher, Orville Chamberlain and Max Chamberlain. Some of our church members had family pass. Coming to mind are Shelley Lambert, who was a daughter to Jim and Pat Hartley. Also, Connie Lerner, Steve Runkel's sister and Betty Bolsover, Donna Harmon's mother. Elaine Werner, a very close aunt to Aaron Mattern and Gerald Thielmeier, Jane Swanquist's father. In addition, we have had folks in our community pass, people like Larry Eads. Many will say that they don’t want to go to a funeral home or confront the one who is grieving. Not because they don’t care, but because they care so much and are afraid they will say the wrong thing. What you must realize is that just your presence speaks louder and much clearer than your words could ever speak.

         Early one morning, sometime between midnight and two AM, I received a call from Hospice. There was a death and the family had prearranged for our funeral home. I called our team and then I drove to the home. The transfer team had just arrived and were going into the home. As the door opened, I heard wailing. Not pretend wailing, but anguished sounds from a tormented soul. When I walked in, the Hospice nurse had tears running down her cheeks (by the way, I am always so impressed by Hospice). The wife was by her husband’s bed with her arms wrapped around his cooling body. Their son sat in another chair in tears, unable to help his Mom. “No, no! You can’t have him!” I called her by name and she turned her head toward me. “Please! Don’t take him!” She shook her fist at me. Years of experience, I should know just what to say. Only I didn’t. “OK, Florence, not till you are ready.” I took the fist that was threatening me and guided her to her chair next to her husband. No words were forming in my mind. The grief just washed over all of us. I opened her fist up into a hand, held it and knelt before her. I lowered my head onto the top of her hand and just stayed that way, silently praying. In a moment her head lowered until her face was on the back of my head and we stayed like that for several minutes, just crying together. Finally, she brought her other hand and laid it to my face. She lifted her head and I lifted mine, her hand on the side of my face. “OK,” she whispered. “I’m ready.” I softly explained what we were going to do and she was OK with it all.

         You don’t have to say some magic words. There are none to say. Just be caring, just be compassionate, just be there.

         Go. Be the friend. Be open. Jesus said the Comforter would come. We are the Comforter’s feet and hands and embracing arms. Be there.