I guess my Aunt Evie got it all started. I loved my Aunt Evie. She was Uncle Burt’s wife, and he was my mother’s brother. All my mother’s people, and all of my father’s, too, were Hard Shell Baptist from Russell Springs, Kentucky. They all married people of the same belief system. (If you don’t know, Hard Shell were mostly Kentucky and West Virginia folks, all along a short stretch of border between the two states. Extremely strict. They might get happy during worship, but mostly were sour faced the rest of the time.) Burt, however, met this vivacious Pentecostal girl who just won his heart. He broke with the church and married her.

          By the time I came along Aunt Evie had ingrained herself deeply into the family. They lived way up in the most northern part of Ohio in the same town as us and she was the life of any gathering. They took turns going to a Baptist church (no Hard Shell near us) and a Pentecostal church. Evie didn’t care. It didn’t matter what church she was in, if the Spirit came on her, she would jump up and start prophesying. Everything would stop until she was done. Everyone would get happy. And, when she was in the Spirit, it seemed whatever she said would be, would happen. Outside of church she was a complete cut up. She didn’t believe in being gloomy. Life was a joy.

          And then, when I was twelve, she got cancer. Back then, the only real diagnostic tool they had was exploratory surgery. She never really recovered from that. She was treated with chemotherapy, but at that time it wasn’t very effective. Her condition worsened and it became clear she was going to die. My mother was spending most of her time taking care of her sister-in-law, and my oldest sister (six years older than me) would go and help. But Mom didn’t want my other sister (three years older than me) or me to be there and see the shape our aunt was in. However, Evie wanted to see us. So, the day came when our father took us over.

          Semi propped up on the sofa was someone who looked a little like our beloved aunt, but she was way more haggard and worn. She embraced my sister and told her to be good and pure, obey her mother and marry a good man. Next, I stepped up, fully expecting the same basic thing. Evie looked at me and her eyes rolled back into her head. Her face turned to the ceiling and she shouted, “GLORY!” She lay back on the pillows, panting from the effort. “Oh, glory!” Alarmed, my mother stepped in. “Ev, what is it girl?” My mother’s name was Lavona. The family all called her Vonie. “Vonie, that boy is going to be a preacher man!” We were all shocked, especially me. Mom wanted me to be a lawyer, Dad wanted me to be a farmer or work in one of the steel mills. Every adult I knew wanted me to be something else, but no one had ever said a thing about preaching. I wasn’t even saved! At twelve years old I had embraced the whole evolution thing. I didn’t know what I was going to be, but I sure wasn’t going to be a preacher!

          Obviously, Evie was right. It was another five years before I accepted Christ and then He began to work on me. I decided I was going to go to a Christian college in Tennessee. My father was pretty disgusted with me. It was well known in the part of Kentucky he was from that there were two kinds of preachers. Them that was called and them that was educated. I was going to be an educated preacher, therefore not worth much. He never cared for my life choice.

However, God was in control. I learned that God was calling me to be a pastor. As a pastor, I would have to preach, but I was a pastor. Just like that, I went from someone who had no use for the ministry to someone who was sold out to the ministry.

It changed the way my family and friends were with me. A first year student at the college I had chosen could not have a car. I guess they figured we would be out joy riding instead of hitting the books. Anyway, my parents were going to take me down to Chattanooga. My mother wanted to stop in Kentucky to see her brother Curtis, whose wife, Nina, had just died. Curtis had a meal ready when we got there. I had always figured that Curtis would have been happy with a can of beans and a biscuit, but this was quite a meal. We sat down at the table to eat and the old man looked across the table to me. “Larry, would you return thanks?” (For those who don’t know, returning thanks is asking the blessing for the meal, just a much prettier way to say it. If you are in someone else’s home and they ask you to return thanks, it is an honor,) I was pretty surprised and just stared at him. He looked at me and, in a gentle voice, said, “Nephew, you are the preacher, after all.”

And that has been the way it has been. An aunt in Indianapolis calling me instead of her own pastor, to pray for her. “Well, you are the preacher.” At the graveside for Uncle Curtis, the minister said, “Curt has a nephew who is a preacher. He will say a few words.” That was a nice gesture, except I didn’t know before hand. Marsha’s family used me for everything. Weddings, funerals, returning thanks. I was the preacher. Because I pastored near where I grew up, I would get old friends contacting me to see someone in the hospital or on their death bed. I was the minister. It is who I am and now in my life I am that person to almost everyone I know.

Mr. Marty was the father of my best friend Keith When he died suddenly, they called me. I was the minister. It didn’t matter that this man had been very much like a father to me and that I was grieving, too. I was to do the funeral. When Mrs. Marty died, it was the same thing. But by then I was working at the funeral home and they wanted me to be the only one to handle her in preparation as well as do the funeral. Very hard to do that. But you are the preacher or the minister or whatever. You can do it.

And it is all OK. I have watched Brian Chamberlain do three such funerals recently. His father, his uncle and his friend. These were hard funerals. You have your opportunity to grieve snatched away. You have to be there for family and friends. The burden and pain is great. But at the same time, for Brian it was the highest of honors. It was a chance to really do something for the most important people in his life. Those three funerals were packed and Brian was able to rise above his own grief to give them something extra special. And he can treasure that. After all, he is the preacher.

I have been there and I understand it completely.

But this time, it feels different. Next Thursday, July 1, I will do the funeral for my best friend. Keith was closer to me than a brother would have been, I believe. We were together as much as we could be. People have friends, but as you are growing up you have one best friend. My childhood was turbulent, sometimes violent. An alcoholic father often creates that home. But I could depend on Keith.

On the evening of Keith’s death, I was finally able to talk to Karen, his sister and a dear friend to me as well. As we talked, I asked some questions about dates and times of the funeral. She said, “You know, Larry, we couldn’t ask anyone else. You’re the minister.” Without thinking, I said, “Well, this is the last time. This is really, really hard.” And then I broke down. I don’t think she had ever thought about the personal price. No one ever does. But after forty six years it seems to have just built up like a dam that is holding back just a little too much water. And being alone, to boot.

I have done more funerals than anyone else I know. None have been easy. But this one is going to be very hard. Please keep Keith’s family in prayer. And his friend, whom he knew for sixty two years.

         

        Thanks.