I noticed a death in today’s paper of a funeral director from one of the communities where I served as pastor. One of the things I’ve enjoyed as a pastor through the years is getting to know funeral directors in every community I’ve served. We have to be partners with these professionals as we work with families because every church, and every family is going to need a funeral at some time. It just so happens. So I determined early on that I would get to know these people and hopefully it would assist us in working together.

One of my habits early on, and I’ve stopped doing this now, but it was pretty cool then, was to ask the funeral director as we were preparing for the automobile procession to the graveside service if I could hitch a ride with them in the “lead car” or the hearse, either one. I got some strange looks for this request, but usually they didn’t hesitate to allow me to do that. So I always followed up by asking, “It is a two-way trip, right?” This would usually elicit a grin.

Some funeral directors would work with the local police or sheriff’s departments to guide the funeral procession through traffic lights and at major intersections on the way to the cemetery. Others would just handle it themselves. I knew one who would slow down at an intersection, stick his hand out the window to stop traffic, and keep going. It usually worked without a hitch.

People in the Appalachian area, and I hear in other places as well, will readily pull off the road when a funeral procession is going by. It’s been rare occasions when disrespect is shown, but mostly our people, remembering a time when they were in that line of cars, will stop, and sometimes they’ll even get out of their cars and put their hat on their heart. I heard the state of Virginia had outlawed it, but the State Police decided not to enforce it especially in the mountains. I mean you gotta rely on “When in Rome . . .”

One of the interesting features of Central Appalachian funeral homes is that it is really a family business. I have met three generations of the same family in leadership in particular funeral homes. I saw as the older generation began to become less able, the family kept them active. I used to love seeing a first generation funeral director who I was told was having some problems with dementia, dressed in his finest dark suit, step out onto the street in front of a funeral home in Richlands, Virginia and stop traffic for the procession to exit the parking lot. He never missed a beat with that. And I felt so blessed to watch him keep going as long as he was able.

I was in the little town of Honaker, VA once for funeral and the visitation was going on. I did what I sometimes like to do, and went to the funeral director’s office and started up some conversation with him. He seemed to like the conversation and we began telling some interesting stories. He began spinning a tale about the time when he was apprenticing to become a funeral director, and was working with one of the two partners of a funeral home in Richlands. He said they had a long funeral and an even longer trip to the graveside as the cemetery was somewhere over in Buchanan County. He said the more they traveled the smaller the road got. Finally it was just two tracks in the dirt going around a hill. Eventually they got to this little run down cemetery that had a partial fence around it in the middle of a cow pasture.

He said he was in the lead car with the funeral director driving. When they got parked, the grave digger came running up to the car and the driver rolled the window down (you can tell this is an old story!).

“Mr Scott, Mr Scott!” he nervously hollered. The funeral director, a real veteran of the trade, unshaken, responded “What’s the matter?” “Mr Scott, there’s an old cow got down in that grave and we can’t get her out.”

By this time the other people are starting to get out of their cars and head toward the hearse. The funeral director, seeing the dilemma they’re in, quietly responds. “Take a piece of that old green tarp and cover the grave. Let’s just hope that old cow don’t say nothing during the service.”

Bob Bennett, the Honaker Funeral Director telling me this story said “We had that service with a cow in the grave, and nobody ever knew it.” I asked, did the cow stay quiet? He said he was worried the whole time that it would go “Moo” from the grave, but it never did. He said you could hear it shifting it’s weight some.

I was in another community later and working with a funeral director who was a little rough around the edges. We went to a graveside a few miles out of town. It was pouring down rain. He met me when I got to the cemetery and holding a big umbrella over my window, told me “Preacher, the head’s up this away, and after you get done, be sure and shut the gate.” Then he disappeared, and I was befuddled. Usually the funeral home director stays through the burial, but here that wasn’t happening as he dashed off in his pickup truck. Later that week I saw him going down the main drag of town with a casket in the back of his truck. I was sure he had repossessed it somewhere.

A friend of mine serving a church near the West Virginia border one time told of standing at the head of a grave and beginning a graveside service when all of a sudden the ground underneath his feet gave away and he fell into the grave. He said he didn’t remember how he got out—he said it happened so quickly, and embarrassed him quite a bit, but he had to brush off the dirt and continue on with the service. Our goal in these situations is to comfort the family, not care about ourselves.

Funeral directors in the mountains are sometimes hard pressed to figure out when the service is going to end. We have a tendency to allow several preachers to preach. In some traditions, there might be as many as six or seven who take to the pulpit and try to out preach each other. I’ve heard some of the directors say they just go to their cars and wait until someone comes and gets them.

I was leading a funeral procession in Georgia one time when one of our ministers in the conference passed away, and he had been in our congregation. A retired bishop was co-officiating with me. I asked the funeral director after the service, “Do I have to be the lead car? I don’t know where the cemetery is?” He said, “Don’t worry, preacher, just follow the police. They’ll escort you all the way there. In fact the Georgia police will take you up Sand Mountain to the Alabama line and an Alabama police car will pull out in front of you there and you just follow him. Don’t worry.” I had offered the bishop a ride in my car but he preferred to drive himself and was positioned directly behind me, and in front of the hearse. We traveled up the mountain, passed the state line and the Georgia police car got off the road as the Alabama car pulled out in front of me, just as the funeral director said. Now I was okay. I just followed along. We got to the end of the road at a “T” intersection and the police car signaled to go left. I turned left with him. The bishop turned left with me. The hearse turned right.

I realized right then that we were going the wrong way. So I got off the road, flagged down the bishop and told him, we’re lost! We laughed and nervously I turned around. The police was now out of sight. We got back to the end of the procession and pulled into the parking area near the cemetery. About the time I got out of my car and was walking to the hearse, the policeman showed up. He apologized profusely and said, “I don’t know what was wrong with me. I was hearing my caution lights clicking on and off and sort of got in a trance. It was the end of my day and I suddenly thought I was headed to my house.” I told him it was all right. “I knew they wouldn’t be able to start without us.” The bishop grinned at that and we went on and had the service.

We need to be thankful for the people who prepare our loved ones for burial. They have a particularly difficult task, and an emotionally laden one. And they seem to know how to be professional through it all. Costs for funerals are always rising, but these folks do a great job of working with people and trying to help them during these times.

I’m thankful for the funeral directors I’ve known through the years. They have made our communities better.