The funeral was for a friend. Someone I had met through church and other life events. She had died too soon, as they say, and since her death came during a pandemic, the service was to be held at the graveyard, in the country.
I had a full schedule and was not planning on attending; a fellow pastor was set to officiate. After some conversation, it came to be that I would drive my truck and assist where needed. My fellow clergyman said the truck would be helpful in his being accepted by what he imagined to be a country crowd.
We made plans to leave at a certain time, to make a pit-stop along the way - my fellow pastor said I would understand when I get older, and to arrive early.
We left at our appointed time. We got to talking as I drove down the highway. I missed our turn. I thought about turning around in the median until I noticed a state trooper doing paperwork there. My citified pastor friend suggested I try it, but I resisted the temptation. We had plenty of time.
We made it to my clergyman's designated pit stop. He went on ahead to take care of business. I perused the store. After a few minutes my friend came walking down the aisle and I heard him say, "you're never going to believe it, my zipper broke."
You're right, I couldn't believe it, but there it was, for all to see. The clerk behind the counter, the guy who just walked in, and myself. Bold was my friend to confess his predicament!
To the clerk behind the counter, he asked in a spirit of desperation, "Ma'am, would you happen to have a safety pin?"
She looked around quickly, and in under 3 seconds she quipped, "No sir, I do not."
What to do?
"Get to the truck," was the thought racing through my mind. I've never been in a situation like that before, but I knew by the tone of the clerk's voice, standing in her isle discussing solutions was not an option she or we wanted.
Outside I noticed a nearby grocery store. As my friend found his way to the truck, I jogged to the store. There, two unsuspecting clerks pointed me in the direction of the safety pins. I returned to the truck with a box of them.
I got in and began to drive. My friend was sweating. Our early arrival was gone with the wind. And if these safety pins didn't work, more of him was going to be on display that anyone wanted.
One pin, then two.
Sitting in the seat of a truck is not a great position to solve a problem like a broken zipper. Nearing the grave site, with the situation still very precarious, I pulled off the road. My friend got out, stood up was able to make the necessary adjustments.
We continued to the cemetery, I parked. My friend said, "walk in front of me." I did for a while and then I went to greet others who had come to mourn our collective loss and support the family. My friend carried his notes in a large black notebook. He carried the notebook as low as his arms would go, in the center of his body.
Time to begin.
We took our places. My friend presiding as the officient, and I was by his side holding his extra book. Whatever he was holding in his hands, he held very low, below the belt and at an angle. Watching the whole event the only thing that looked out of place was his really low holding of the books.
Before long the words had been spoken, songs sung, our grief recognized but not resolved, and our faith stirred up. We made our way back to the truck, and back to the city. The case was closed!
As I recall the events now, it is dawning on me that the person who would enjoy this story the most, was our dear friend we laid to rest. Tragedy had touched her life, but she found a way to laugh and see the humor of life in all things. In living and in dying, she created good humor.
