href="#fb3_img_img_831509d7-c804-52f7-9d6d-ceae213a6b60.jpg" alt=""/>I looked up from the desk where I sat preparing memorial cards for a visitation in the evening when Robert entered the office. He paused as he looked at the papers in his hand and then at me and asked, “Do we have a chaplain?" I shrugged my shoulders as if to say I don’t know. I had only been working at the funeral home for a few weeks as a part-time assistant. I was not even sure if my position had a designation.
When I did not reply, he explained what had transpired as he dealt with a family. All the arrangements had been finalized for a memorial service with the exception of enlisting a minister. They had discussed several individuals but each would have to travel some distance if available. After a few moments in conference they turned to him and asked, “Do you have a chaplain?"
After a moment, Robert asked me if I would be willing to meet with the family and officiate at the service for them. I readily agreed not knowing the fulfilling ministry it would open before me for the next decade and a half as an unofficial funeral home chaplain. I would have the opportunity and sacred privilege of standing with countless families in their hours of sorrow to bring words of consolation and hope.
In addition, as an assistant director, which I later found out was my designation, I would have access to hundreds of families in assuring that physical arrangements for each service were carried out in an orderly and caring manner. Although I was not in charge of the services, I was often able to offer comfort and encouragement.
I was humbled when asked to officiate at a service for a family I did not know. I realized they were placing their trust and emotions in one who came to them upon the recommendation of another. I renewed a vow in my heart not to become inured to grief nor calloused in my approach to people in need. Each family would receive my best without respect to their economic circumstances or social standing in the community. To the best of my ability I would sit where they sat and share in the tears of their grief.
It seemed, as I looked back over years of previous ministry, I had been divinely prepared for this position. I had been ordained at age twenty-five. Prior to being ordained as a preacher I had spent a number of years in college and seminary preparing for a lifetime as pastor of a local congregation. However, there was some ambivalence in my calling for I had a strong interest in counseling.
Through the years my ministry had taken a number of turns. I served as pastor, interim director of missions, and as a volunteer in missions which led me on numerous trips abroad. I completed a basic course in Clinical Pastoral Education. This led me into several years as a volunteer hospice chaplain. When the church of my childhood where I had been nurtured and admonished in faith as a youth called me as pastor, I returned home and remained until I retired at age sixty-five.
Now I would be closing out my years in a ministry to which I felt I was as divinely called as I had been when leading a church congregation. In my earlier years, a pastor leaving a local church and entering into chaplaincy or a counseling position was often thought by one’s contemporaries to be leaving the Gospel ministry. Perhaps that had influenced some of the decisions I had made concerning my life’s work in the past. But now I was at peace. It was clear to me that I was where I should be at this stage in life doing an important work for which I had been prepared.
As I look back over fifty-five years of ministry, I give thanks to God for opportunities He has given me for service. I have been blessed! The rewards of service are many. My heart is warmed when an adult whom I have not seen in years smiles broadly and calls out “Hey, Brother Lee," and hurries to my side to shake my hand. I am gratified when I visit in various churches and see leaders who served by my side in the past.
When emails and telephone calls come to me from a congregation in Spain with whom Effie and I had the responsibility and privilege of ministering with in good times and bad, I am humbled by the faith and trust they placed in us. Though thousands of miles away, I rejoice with families who were young when we first met them as they share with us the latest news. When I review the days spent with them a smile comes to my face as joy expands in my heart. I remember their trust in the counsel I gave when the church passed through difficult hours.
Recently a lady came up to me and asked, “May I hug you?” She did not look at all familiar to me. When she saw the puzzled expression on my face she hastened to say, “You may not remember me but you preached my mother’s funeral a few years ago. Our entire family is grateful for your comforting words.” By other individuals I have been reminded of forgotten words of comfort I have offered. It has been my joy and privilege to walk through the valley of the shadows with them.
Recently a young pastor who participates in a small group of which I am a part, reminded me of something I had said almost ten years ago at the service of a dear friend. The truth expressed continues to be an inspiration and encouragement to him as he grows in personal ministry.
If these things constitute being a chaplain then yes, I will gladly serve as a chaplain and comforter.
Stand With the Family
“Comfort ye, comfort ye my people…” (Isaiah 40:1)
It was his first time to conduct a service with an open casket. At the conclusion of the service family and friends would come forward for a final viewing of the deceased. It is an occasion when raw emotions are often displayed as a family slowly passes by for a last farewell. There may be loud wailing as well as silent tears. A hand may reach out to touch the body with a loving pat or lips may gently brush a cheek as a relative reluctantly turns away. It is a drama which has elements of tragedy written throughout.
On this day, when the time came for the viewing, the weeping widow with several subdued children clinging desperately to her deliberately made their way forward. The widow wore a simple dress that obviously had been worn many times before. The children were dressed in clothing that did not fit well. Perhaps the clothes had been furnished by someone else for the sad occasion. All looked uncomfortable, even confused, as to what was expected of them.
I could only imagine what was going on in the mind of the widow. Were those tears of relief that she had been released from an abusive relationship? Or were they signs of the despair she felt now that death had taken away the only stability she had ever known? Did they arise out of the fear gripping her heart as she faced an unknown tomorrow? I thought I could see in the children’s eyes the hope that the public display of their emotions would soon be over so they could slip silently back into anonymity and the privacy of their sorrow.
My answer to the young minister’s question had perhaps been cryptic. It was “stand with the grieving family." In the company of grieving ones, that may be all we can do. We cannot replace their loss. We cannot in a moment, with magic words, make it all better. But we can stand with them and we can walk beside them as they deal with their sorrow.
We who minister in times of grief are commanded to be there for those who sorrow. God gave us a charge when through Isaiah he spoke the words, “Comfort ye my people." And we are given an example through the prophet Jeremiah who is remembered for his tears as he entered captivity with his vanquished nation.
There is comfort in “presence." Jesus prepared his disciples for the grief and loss they would experience at his death by promising them the presence of a Holy Comforter who would come into their
