By Rev. Tom White, February 19, 2019 — Funerals can be a time for remembrance as well as sending forth. They are times for considerate actions and sensitive actions. They can also be a time for memorable occurrences—sometimes for the better; sometimes for the worse.
Early in my ministry, an elderly oysterman died. For many years he skippered a trawler in the Delaware Bay, bringing in oysters for shucking and sale. At the viewing prior to the service, many, many people passed by. He had been a good citizen, an active churchman and a fine gentleman. Almost everyone passing by had nothing but fine words to say to the widow; remarking about her husband’s good life, his generosity and other fitting tributes.
Finally another old fisherman came up. He had more than one run-in with the departed person. He just stood there by the open casket as the widow silently stepped near him. Finally the gruff old salt spoke up, simple saying, “I’m going to miss the Old Buzzard.”
Later the widow remarked, “Those words meant more to me than anything else said that night.”
There are times when funeral services can become plans gone awry. It was in the late 1960s. I was called upon to officiate for a funeral service in Swedesboro. The service was scheduled to begin at 2:00pm. This was going to be a bit dicey inasmuch as this was November 29th. We had a 48-mile journey to Head-of-the-River Cemetery for the committal and there isn’t going to be a lot of daylight for these rituals.
As I approached the funeral home, the undertaker greeted me at the door with a very grim look on his face. Truth-to-be-told, he always had that grim look on his face; but this time it was extra grim.
He said in a short, irritable voice, “There is some local preacher who wants to say a few words.”
“Say a few words?” I knew the guy. He couldn’t say “Good morning” in less than 15 minutes.
I asked the Funeral Director, “Is this okay with the family?” He replied, “Yes.”
After the opening words of assurance and prayer, I called on brother Wilber to “say a few words.” I only had three words to whisper to him: “Keep it brief.”
Keeping it brief, he didn’t. He rambled on and on: 15 minutes; 20 minutes. I could see the family and others getting restless. The Funeral Director was getting very restless. After 35 minutes, he showed no signs of slowing down. I had to do something! I walked up to the lectern, turned our dear brother around and grabbed his hand, shock it vigorously, then shouldered him away from the lectern. He feebly said that he still had a few things more to say, and I told him, “I know you do brother, and I am sure that we all would like to hear them after the committal service.”
Now came the hour-long trek to Head-of-the-River. When we arrived, the caretaker met us at the gate holding a lantern. Brother Wilber asked me what parts of the ritual did I want him to do. I reassured him that the committal service was only about five minutes long and that I was assured that I could handle it all by myself.
Fortunately, I knew the committal service by heart inasmuch as it was difficult to read the prayerbook by this time. It was the only funeral service that I ever did “under the lights”— the caretakers lantern and the full moon just rising on the horizon.