Tag: funeral

ON A BEAUTIFUL SPRING DAY

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On a beautiful spring day in 1964, I was walking home from school along the main road of our little rural village of Southold. Suddenly, a police car pulled up alongside me. The window came down, and the police chief called to me, ‘George, how are you?’ Like I said, it was a small town.

I replied, ‘Fine’. He said, ‘Get in’. Now my stomach is getting queasy, and my palms are beginning to sweat.

I got into the back seat and said hello to the lieutenant sitting next to the chief. Two of the highest-ranking police officers were inviting me to… what? 

A short drive later, we turned onto a small side road. The lieutenant pointed to a house with a large broken picture window and asked me, ‘George, did you do that?’ With a mouth full of cotton, I replied,’ Yeah.’ We had some chit-chat after that, which I don’t remember because by this time I am picturing myself in a cell in the village jail.

They drove me home. Now that’s a pretty sight: a police cruiser parked in my driveway for all the neighbors to see. The chief said they would be in touch… as soon as the owner of the home was notified and asked if he wanted to press charges. (The homeowners were summer residents not present at the time of the crime.)

Life was pretty much a haze for the next few hours. 

In the meantime, unbeknownst to me, the lieutenant spoke to the homeowner on my behalf. I was generally a good kid, you should know, who succumbed to some evil impulse inspired by the dare of the guys I was with. I threw the rock in broad daylight, and a neighbor must have spotted me.

Eventually I  met the owner face-to-face. I was absolutely intimidated and in tears. He said he would NOT press charges but would require me to pay for a new picture window. It would take me the entire summer to save up the money.

This was one of my earliest encounters with grace. Not cheap grace because it came with some financial and emotional cost. It was a good lesson.

Fast forward 40 years. 

I am the pastor (who woulda thunk) in a church 10 miles from the scene of the crime. One day the funeral director asked me if I would do the funeral for the wife of a man I didn’t know. I thought the name was familiar but at the time couldn’t quite place it.

Eventually it came to me. This was the homeowner with the broken picture window!

The man had remarried and moved, and I was about to meet him again. After we talked at length about his wife and the funeral service, I said, ‘Mr. Jones (not his real name), I’m not sure you remember me, but I’m the guy who broke your window.’ He said, Oh, I know who you are.’ He was still gracious. And now I was able to extend a measure of grace to him in his grief.

Now you know the rest of the story.

There is a lot of goodness and grace in this life, and it all comes from the love of a good God.

KEEP YOUR FORK (A story of hope)

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There was a young woman who had been diagnosed with a terminal illness and been given three months to live. As she was getting her things in order, she contacted her pastor and had him come to her house to discuss certain aspects of her final wishes.

She told him which songs she wanted sung at the service, which scriptures she would like read, and which outfit she wanted to be buried in. When everything was in order and the pastor was preparing to leave, the woman suddenly remembered something very important to her.

“There’s one more thing,” she said excitedly.

“What’s that?” came the pastor’s reply.

“This is very important,” the young woman continued. “I want to be buried with a fork in my right hand.”

The pastor stood looking at the young woman, not knowing quite what to say.

“That surprises you, doesn’t it?” the young woman asked.

“Well, to be honest, I’m puzzled by the request,” said the pastor.

The young woman explained. “My grandmother once told me this story, and from that time on, I have always tried to pass along its message to those I love and those who need encouragement. In all my years of attending socials and dinners, I always remember that when the dishes of the main course were being cleared, someone would inevitably lean over and say, ‘Keep your fork.’ It was my favorite part because I knew that something better was coming…like velvety chocolate cake or deep-dish apple pie. Something wonderful, and with substance!”

So, I just want people to see me there in that casket with a fork in my hand and I want them to wonder “What’s with the fork?” Then I want you to tell them: “Keep your fork…the best is yet to come.”

The pastor’s eyes welled up with tears of joy as he hugged the young woman goodbye. He knew this would be one of the last times he would see her before her death. But he also knew that the young woman had a better grasp of heaven than he did. She had a better grasp of what heaven would be like than many people twice her age, with twice as much experience and knowledge. She knew that something better was coming.

At the funeral, people were walking by the young woman’s casket, and they saw the cloak she was wearing and the fork placed in her right hand. Over and over, the pastor heard the question, “What’s with the fork?” And over and over he smiled.

During his message, the pastor told the people of the conversation he had with the young woman shortly before she died. He also told them about the fork and about what it symbolized to her. He told the people how he could not stop thinking about the fork and told them that they probably would not be able to stop thinking about it, either.

He was right. So the next time you reach down for your fork, let it remind you, ever so gently, that the best is yet to come.

©Copyright Ann Shorb, 2006