While many of you have been sipping at your hot drink of choice and gazing out at our winter wonderland, I have been at work. Sunday’s message is now up to an hour and ten minutes and I am just on point two. The kitchen floor is mopped. Laundry is done. I am working on a blog series for Lent. In a little bit I will make a cup of tea and glance outside to see if my car has re-emerged from its snowy cocoon. This is the first real snow day since I have been here and I am enjoying it.

         But things changed a bit on Wednesday afternoon. At 4 o’clock I got an expected and planned call. John is a funeral director at the funeral home I used to work at. We have known each other for years and I count him as a friend. Two children not yet ten and a lovely wife who is one of those people who just makes you smile when she walks into a room. She is from Taiwan and is so happy to be in America. Marsha and I have eaten real Chinese food in their home, and it is much better than the stuff we get here. John didn’t have the best of relationships with his father, so I sort of came to fill that role.

         John could, and would, torment me from time to time. Never mean, just impish. I did just about everything at the funeral home including leading services as a minister if the family had no minister. If I was acting as the director or as the minister, I was deadly serious. Not in the sense that my words were sad and ominous, but in the sense that everything go off as planned. I never wanted the family to look back and remember the goofs. This is where John would get me. He was a musician and, as such, was the music minister at his church. He can play five instruments, but really likes the guitar. Sometimes, if I was the minister and he was the director, he would go to the cemetery early and hide his guitar, in its case, in some bushes. Then, as I was doing the graveside, he would retrieve the guitar and when I was done he would announce that he and I would sing ‘Amazing Grace,’ or some such. One sweltering day in August we were burying a lady who had loved Christmas, so he pulled out his guitar and we sang ‘Silent Night.’ It was never inappropriate but it was also something I never wanted to do or had planned to do. One time we were having the graveside for a lovely Irish woman whose wonderful Irish husband, Daniel, had died a couple of years before. Everyone gathered had red hair and freckles. As I said the final prayer, John stepped up beside me. When I was done he handed me a paper and told the gathered that Pastor Wade was also Irish, and now Pastor Wade was going to sing ‘O Danny Boy.’ The paper had the words. In that situation you cannot say no. It would mar the whole funeral. So I sang ‘O Danny Boy.’ It took a couple of days, but I finally started talking to him again.

         Wednesday’s conversation started out as conversation does between two friends. Kimberly, my daughter in law, works at the funeral home, so we talked of the baby. John scolded me for not being there yet. We talked of his wife and kids. John’s mother got COVID just after Thanksgiving and passed it on to him, so Christmas services for him were problematic. He brought me up to speed about things at the funeral home. Just general things of interest to both of us. But then we got to the purpose of the call.

         Final arrangements for my disposition after I die. The disposition is the disposal of a body. It could be burial at sea, it could be the scattering of cremated remains or it could be a traditional burial or entombment. There are a couple of others, but we won’t go there. The big issue is the transport back to Ohio. I know a few of you will say, “But there is room at Speicher or St. Peter’s cemeteries!” I know that, but I want to be near my son so he can feel guilty for not getting around to see me. There are logistics to work out, plans to make and money to pay. When I die I do not want my son to have to deal with those issues.

         And at this point I need to step away from the story. Please, please, please prearrange your final arrangements. “Oh, no! Too creepy!” I know. I have heard it over and over. But then when you sit down and you begin to hear the options, it all falls into place. And you are relieving your loved ones of a great burden. We are all going to die. Prepare for it to save you children or spouse the pain of picking out a casket and deciding clothing. Call the funeral home you wish to use and set a meeting up.

         Now, back to point.

         My arrangements are simple in the extreme. I want to be cremated in the same cremation chamber in which I have cremated over 1500 people. I want my remains to be put in a simple urn and given to my son. That is it. Nothing else. No funeral. He may wish to do something else, but that is on him, I have learned that once a preacher leaves a community, they are soon forgotten. No point in having a funeral with five people.

         As I talked to John, this was reinforced. John told me how much I had meant to him. He also told me of Paul’s expanded duties. I first met Paul and Peggy when their infant son died suddenly. Devout Catholics, they couldn’t understand how this could happen. I explained that the boy was in glory and that they could go and see him, too. But only through Christ. Paul started working at the funeral home and we talked daily. They now have three children and you could not meet a nicer Christian family. John and I talked about Mark, who is now pastoring a church. Mark was a burned out preacher who wanted nothing ever to do with the pulpit again. I got him a job at the funeral home doing odd jobs and worked to bring the 'pastor' in him back. Over so many years there have been so many like that, and that is what is important.

         The funeral is for the living, not the dead. It is for closure. But what is really important is the life we live here and the Christ we proclaim.

The Dash Poem by Linda Ellis

I read of a man who stood to speak at the funeral of a friend

He referred to the dates on the tombstone, from the beginning...to the end

 

He noted that first came the date of birth, and spoke the following date with tears,

But he said what mattered most of all was the dash between those years.

 

For that dash represents all the time, that they spent alive on earth.

And now only those who loved them know what that little line is worth

 

For it matters not, how much we own, the cars...the house...the cash.

What matters is how we live and love and how we spend our dash.

 

So, think about this long and hard. Are there things you'd like to change?

For you never know how much time is left, that can still be rearranged.

 

If we could just slow down enough to consider what's true and real

And always try to understand the way other people feel.

 

And be less quick to anger and show appreciation more

And love the people in our lives, like we've never loved before.

 

If we treat each other with respect and more often wear a smile,

Remembering this special dash might only last a while

 

So, when your eulogy is being read, with your life's actions to rehash...

Would you be proud of the things they say, about how you spent YOUR dash?