Grieving together

When I became the student pastor of a small church I had no idea what I was getting into. The move from married student housing to a tiny parsonage was, I am ashamed to admit, more about the $50-a-week free housing and backyard for our infant daughter than about anything else. The first thing that happened after we moved in was that Johnny Johnson died. I faced the situation knowing nothing about funerals; my experience with death had been limited to the loss of a grandmother and an uncle when I was seven.

Now I was a pastor, obliged to respond to a call for help from the family of a dying man. When I arrived at the hospital, Johnny's breathing was labored and sporadic. His wife, Pearl, was beside herself. A son explained that she had not slept for days. She would agree to go home only if I stayed with Johnny during the night. I agreed—and spent a very long night sitting and watching a man die. Occasionally I patted his arm—the only thing I could think of to do.

When he stopped breathing, it was my responsibility to call Pearl. She insisted on seeing her husband one more time, so I drove 20 miles to her house and back to the hospital. When she collapsed wailing into my arms, I had to carry her to the car.