By Rev. Tom White, April 17, 2019 — John Whitaker died in the mid-60s. His actual age was not known, but he was old enough to have several great-grandchildren. Although not an actual member of the Goshen United Methodist Church, he had enough connections with the church to commend a funeral service under the church’s auspices. The actual memorial service was held in the South Dennis Funeral Home. Afterward, his remains would be interred in the South Dennis Cemetery.
I was in attendance at this memorial service because John was a grandfather to my wife, Edna. John had Lenni-Lenape blood in his heritage and, according to some friends and family, he had a bit of the rascal in him.
The minister who would conduct the funeral service as Rev. Waters. He had been a pastor of the Goshen Methodist Church for only eight months. He thought that he had gotten to know John well, but many of those attending the memorial service knew him better.
Rev. Waters was what we call a Lay Pastor. He had taken correspondence courses under the coaching of a Board of Ministry; he wasn’t a fully ordained minister. Although in his early sixties, he was rather new to actual ministry. A wise, patient, sensitive approach to preaching would be very helpful, whether young or old. Unfortunately, such traits were rather missing in Brother Waters’ character.
Mary, a long-time, faithful servant in the Goshen Church and a close associate [of] John, had just died four months earlier. Rev. Waters continually made references to John’s “helpmeet” who had just passed away. After using that term (helpmeet) several times, my wife turned to me and asked me what was a helpmeet. I explained that it was an old-time, poetic term for a wife.
Edna’s eyes widened. She replied, “Mary wasn’t his wife; she and Grandfather simply lived together for 30 years. John’s wife is still living down in Cape May Point.”
Gulp!!
As the sermon was drawing to a close, my wife asked me if it would be possible to go up front and open the casket for one final peek. “It’s possible, but it’s usually not done. Why do you want to do that?” I replied.
With just a very faint hint of impishness in her smile, Edna answered, “I want to make sure that it really is my grandfather that we are burying.”