Back in the day I was a drug therapist. Most of you probably know this factoid about me. I have often drawn off the experiences that time of my life provided. As a minister also, I was often called upon to do things that are not common in drug addiction therapy. One particular situation comes to mind.
I had a client that I was taking through drug counseling; we’ll call him Jerry. Jerry died. It was pretty common for someone in this type of therapy to die. My clients had an opiate dependency. This would include any opiate based pain killers like Loritab, Oxycontin, Morphine, or any form of Hydrocodone. It would also include Heroin. Well, Jerry died. It was sad. But, I have to tell you about the funeral.
I arrive early. I immediately realize that this is not going to be your run of the mill funeral. I am way over dressed. The popular attire is cowboy boots, Wrangler Jeans, cowboy shirts or denim shirts, and mullets. There was one group of people that bore a striking resemblance to the Bee Jee’s. I can’t say much about that. There was an overwhelming aroma of Marlboro and an occasional waft of Marijuana. Having counseled, the now deceased, Jerry I didn’t need anyone to direct me to the right parlor. I recognized immediately who his family was.
Jerry’s brother first greeted me. He seemed to be the one in charge. We’ll call him Joe. There was no real schedule or anything that gave solid direction. The direction was simply, “Tim, do whatever you want and let us know when it’s over.” Joe was a real stickler for details. Well, I attempted to do just that. However, it seemed that at least a couple of the family members didn’t get the memo from Joe about how things were supposed to go.
Things began to fall apart about five minutes before the funeral started when two old ladies walked up to me on the platform. They said, “His daddy (meaning Jerry’s daddy) wanted us to sang a number.” Please don’t attribute that horrible grammar to me. I now realize that I have a decision to make. I never do anything in a funeral that I am not specifically told to do. I couldn’t find the daddy; this is important later. So, I hunt down the brother, Joe, and ask him if these two old ladies can sing a song. He says, “I guess.” Big mistake. I should have told them “No.” It would be disastrous.
They start to sing after the first prayer. They sing an old hymn. The lady singing the alto is singing so loud that I can’t even hear myself praying for Jesus to come back and rescue us from this torment. She is also playing the piano. The other lady is supposed to be singing the lead, or melody. If you don’t know this, that is a real important part. She is struggling because she left her glasses at home. She is straining to see the words. She is getting mad because she doesn’t know the words and can’t read them. It only gets worse. In the middle of the second verse, in total frustration, she throws her hands up and yells, “Shit, I don’t know it.” At this point, everyone is looking at me as if I am responsible for this circus act. I think I quit breathing for about 30 seconds. Now, the lead singer has dropped out completely. You would think that the woman singing the harmony, would find a stopping point. Oh no! The show must go on. She plowed through the last two verses singing alto. It never occurred to her to switch parts. She was living la vida loco. This was her time to shine. I mean how often does one get an opportunity like this.
I’d love to say that was all that happened. But, it gets worse. I am in the middle of preaching the message. Now, it is important to note that when dealing with drug addicts and their families, punctuality is not high on the priority list. These people live like vampires, up all night and sleeping through the day. Hence, the funeral was at 1:30pm. I am midway through my message when in walks the sister of the deceased. We’ll call her Deborah. Let me set the scene. You can enter the platform from a side door. This door will dump you out right behind where I am preaching. This was the door that Deborah chose to use for her grand entrance. While I am preaching, she comes in behind me. She is a bit drugged up. She slowly moves around the stage in a trance, like she doesn’t know where she is. All the time she is holding in her hand one of those mason jars full of ice tea. Wrapped around the jar is a paper towel. I see her out of the corner of my eye. I keep preaching. The family is seated to the side of the platform. By now, they are all on their feet whisper yelling, “Deborah, pssst,” and motioning her to them. She wanders around for a few moments before landing over with the family.
Deborah comes up to me after the funeral has concluded. She is clutching a small notebook and pen. She says she was taking notes from my message. I saw the paper. It looked like one of those secret decoders you used to get in Cracker Jacks. I didn’t recall saying any of those hieroglyphics. She asks me a question that I have never been asked at a funeral. She asked, “Tim, do you think they videoed the message. I got here late.” I wanted to say, “Really Deborah, nobody noticed you coming in.” She said, “I only heard some of the message. I’d like to have a tape.” I just said, “Deborah, I’ll check on that.” I am certain she gave no more thought to it. She had one more piece of parting advice. Though she circled the casket about 5 times during my message, she said, “Tim, make sure it’s not an open casket. It would be tough on the family.” While she is saying that I glance over at the casket which was shut and had been even during her holding pattern around it. I simply said with bold assurance, “Deborah, I’ll make sure of it.”
Finally, I am at the graveside. If I do a funeral, I typically don’t spend a lot of time speaking at the graveside. I keep it short. So, I wrap it up. I am making my way through speaking to the family one last time. Usually, they are all seated by the grave. It is common for them to remain seated while the preacher leans over to each one of them just to give encouragement. I get to the last seat of the family. Like on those cartoons where a character just appears like he has been running and ends up standing right in front of you, Jerry’s dad just pops in out of nowhere. Remember, I haven’t seen him yet. He too has the family uniform of Wrangler’s, Mullet, Marlboro, boots etc… He is out of breath like he ran to the funeral. This is my first time to see him all day. He says to me, “Would you believe it? My car broke down this mornin’,” He missed his son’s funeral, all of it. I looked at him as they were lowering his son and said, “Yes Sir, right now I’d believe anything.”
I had talked a lot to Jerry. I had spoken to him about Jesus many times. Unfortunately, I can only imagine that on the day of his death, he woke up in Hell. That is harsh. I am afraid it is true. It was a difficult funeral to do. It’s hard to know what to say.
I am thankful today that I know Jesus. I am thankful that there is a home being prepared for me. This life is temporary. My real home is with Jesus. Life takes on a new perspective when you think about eternity. You never know when this life will end. We don’t often think about the possibility that Jesus might come back today. Out of all the funerals I have been a part of there is only one consolation, knowing that someone has gone to be with Jesus.
“In My Father’s house are many dwelling places; if it were not so, I would have told you; for I go to prepare a place for you. If I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself, that where I am, there you may be also,” (John 14:2 & 3).
There is a house being built for me right now in Heaven. Jesus is preparing it just for me. It will have more than what I need. But, the house isn’t the important part. Just being with Jesus all the time. Man, that excites me today. One day, I won’t struggle. One day, I won’t cry. One day, I won’t be burdened with heaviness and temptation. One day, I’ll be taken up in the glory of Jesus. My heart will always be in praise.
I love you, your servant, your friend,
Tim
I had a client that I was taking through drug counseling; we’ll call him Jerry. Jerry died. It was pretty common for someone in this type of therapy to die. My clients had an opiate dependency. This would include any opiate based pain killers like Loritab, Oxycontin, Morphine, or any form of Hydrocodone. It would also include Heroin. Well, Jerry died. It was sad. But, I have to tell you about the funeral.
I arrive early. I immediately realize that this is not going to be your run of the mill funeral. I am way over dressed. The popular attire is cowboy boots, Wrangler Jeans, cowboy shirts or denim shirts, and mullets. There was one group of people that bore a striking resemblance to the Bee Jee’s. I can’t say much about that. There was an overwhelming aroma of Marlboro and an occasional waft of Marijuana. Having counseled, the now deceased, Jerry I didn’t need anyone to direct me to the right parlor. I recognized immediately who his family was.
Jerry’s brother first greeted me. He seemed to be the one in charge. We’ll call him Joe. There was no real schedule or anything that gave solid direction. The direction was simply, “Tim, do whatever you want and let us know when it’s over.” Joe was a real stickler for details. Well, I attempted to do just that. However, it seemed that at least a couple of the family members didn’t get the memo from Joe about how things were supposed to go.
Things began to fall apart about five minutes before the funeral started when two old ladies walked up to me on the platform. They said, “His daddy (meaning Jerry’s daddy) wanted us to sang a number.” Please don’t attribute that horrible grammar to me. I now realize that I have a decision to make. I never do anything in a funeral that I am not specifically told to do. I couldn’t find the daddy; this is important later. So, I hunt down the brother, Joe, and ask him if these two old ladies can sing a song. He says, “I guess.” Big mistake. I should have told them “No.” It would be disastrous.
They start to sing after the first prayer. They sing an old hymn. The lady singing the alto is singing so loud that I can’t even hear myself praying for Jesus to come back and rescue us from this torment. She is also playing the piano. The other lady is supposed to be singing the lead, or melody. If you don’t know this, that is a real important part. She is struggling because she left her glasses at home. She is straining to see the words. She is getting mad because she doesn’t know the words and can’t read them. It only gets worse. In the middle of the second verse, in total frustration, she throws her hands up and yells, “Shit, I don’t know it.” At this point, everyone is looking at me as if I am responsible for this circus act. I think I quit breathing for about 30 seconds. Now, the lead singer has dropped out completely. You would think that the woman singing the harmony, would find a stopping point. Oh no! The show must go on. She plowed through the last two verses singing alto. It never occurred to her to switch parts. She was living la vida loco. This was her time to shine. I mean how often does one get an opportunity like this.
I’d love to say that was all that happened. But, it gets worse. I am in the middle of preaching the message. Now, it is important to note that when dealing with drug addicts and their families, punctuality is not high on the priority list. These people live like vampires, up all night and sleeping through the day. Hence, the funeral was at 1:30pm. I am midway through my message when in walks the sister of the deceased. We’ll call her Deborah. Let me set the scene. You can enter the platform from a side door. This door will dump you out right behind where I am preaching. This was the door that Deborah chose to use for her grand entrance. While I am preaching, she comes in behind me. She is a bit drugged up. She slowly moves around the stage in a trance, like she doesn’t know where she is. All the time she is holding in her hand one of those mason jars full of ice tea. Wrapped around the jar is a paper towel. I see her out of the corner of my eye. I keep preaching. The family is seated to the side of the platform. By now, they are all on their feet whisper yelling, “Deborah, pssst,” and motioning her to them. She wanders around for a few moments before landing over with the family.
Deborah comes up to me after the funeral has concluded. She is clutching a small notebook and pen. She says she was taking notes from my message. I saw the paper. It looked like one of those secret decoders you used to get in Cracker Jacks. I didn’t recall saying any of those hieroglyphics. She asks me a question that I have never been asked at a funeral. She asked, “Tim, do you think they videoed the message. I got here late.” I wanted to say, “Really Deborah, nobody noticed you coming in.” She said, “I only heard some of the message. I’d like to have a tape.” I just said, “Deborah, I’ll check on that.” I am certain she gave no more thought to it. She had one more piece of parting advice. Though she circled the casket about 5 times during my message, she said, “Tim, make sure it’s not an open casket. It would be tough on the family.” While she is saying that I glance over at the casket which was shut and had been even during her holding pattern around it. I simply said with bold assurance, “Deborah, I’ll make sure of it.”
Finally, I am at the graveside. If I do a funeral, I typically don’t spend a lot of time speaking at the graveside. I keep it short. So, I wrap it up. I am making my way through speaking to the family one last time. Usually, they are all seated by the grave. It is common for them to remain seated while the preacher leans over to each one of them just to give encouragement. I get to the last seat of the family. Like on those cartoons where a character just appears like he has been running and ends up standing right in front of you, Jerry’s dad just pops in out of nowhere. Remember, I haven’t seen him yet. He too has the family uniform of Wrangler’s, Mullet, Marlboro, boots etc… He is out of breath like he ran to the funeral. This is my first time to see him all day. He says to me, “Would you believe it? My car broke down this mornin’,” He missed his son’s funeral, all of it. I looked at him as they were lowering his son and said, “Yes Sir, right now I’d believe anything.”
I had talked a lot to Jerry. I had spoken to him about Jesus many times. Unfortunately, I can only imagine that on the day of his death, he woke up in Hell. That is harsh. I am afraid it is true. It was a difficult funeral to do. It’s hard to know what to say.
I am thankful today that I know Jesus. I am thankful that there is a home being prepared for me. This life is temporary. My real home is with Jesus. Life takes on a new perspective when you think about eternity. You never know when this life will end. We don’t often think about the possibility that Jesus might come back today. Out of all the funerals I have been a part of there is only one consolation, knowing that someone has gone to be with Jesus.
“In My Father’s house are many dwelling places; if it were not so, I would have told you; for I go to prepare a place for you. If I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself, that where I am, there you may be also,” (John 14:2 & 3).
There is a house being built for me right now in Heaven. Jesus is preparing it just for me. It will have more than what I need. But, the house isn’t the important part. Just being with Jesus all the time. Man, that excites me today. One day, I won’t struggle. One day, I won’t cry. One day, I won’t be burdened with heaviness and temptation. One day, I’ll be taken up in the glory of Jesus. My heart will always be in praise.
I love you, your servant, your friend,
Tim
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