It’s strange how things come in seasons. One February I arrived back from my annual leave and hit a season of tragedies that continued right through to Easter. We had a funeral every week for eight weeks. In a strange way, I don’t find that morbid or depressing, although it is quite draining. It keeps me in touch as a pastor with what happening to real people in the real world. And, in many cases, I am uplifted when I see how triumphantly people can handle tragedy.

​

First, there was the funeral of an old Irishman. At 16, he had stormed out of his parents’ home leaving a note saying that he would never come back. He joined the Navy and began to lead the usual dissolute life of a sailor. Then, at 19, his frigate came under attack from German Stukas, and he suddenly realised that if he were killed he would go straight to hell. So there on deck, under attack, he knelt down and committed his life to Christ. Unlike many “trench conversions,” his really stuck, and he served the Lord faithfully for the next 70 years. God gave him a beautiful singing voice, which he used in ministry down the years. As we carried his coffin out of the church, we played a CD of him singing “The Holy City.”

​

Then there was the Afrikaans woman who came to ask me to do a funeral for a husband. I had never met her before, but she told me their story. Her husband had been born in East Germany before the Second World War. He had survived the war with his mother, and lived to see the awful day when Russian troops marched in. Later, before the Berlin wall went up, he and his mother managed to escape. He ended up in South Africa where he met this Afrikaans girl who was now a grey-haired woman, and they got married. Now, 40 years later, he was dead. Six years ago, she had had an operation on her neck which went wrong, leaving her without the use of her arms. In those five years, the husband had done everything for. (And I mean everything – no elucidation needed.) Then, a year ago, she had had another operation, and had regained the use of her arms. What rejoicing! Finally they could plan to do something normal. They were planning a journey back to Germany to celebrate her recovery. Now that would never happen. I found that particularly heart-rending. She organised his funeral according to Afrikaans custom - having an open coffin before the funeral. People came and went, spent time with the body, said their goodbyes, wept, and stroked his face. The wife asked me to go in with her to say her goodbyes. She talked (half to me, half to him) for at least seven minutes. She told him what she had appreciated about him, and what made her angry. And she confessed her impatience with him over the last five years. It was as close to the Catholic way of hearing confession as I have ever come. When she was finished, we prayed over the body. I was moved by the sense of closure that it all gave. More and more English-speaking people don’t even have a coffin at “Memorial Services.” I think they are avoiding pain and avoiding reality. There is always a price to pay when we do that. I think the Afrikaans way is much healthier.

 

One family suffered a string of traumas all within a month that defies belief. First, a grown-up son dropped dead next to his bed one Saturday morning. Fit, strong, lean – a member of Sea rescue crew – he died without any warning. An autopsy revealed a congenital heart-defect, and subsequent tests have revealed that his brother has the same defect, so he now has to live with that ax hanging over his head. A week later, that brother’s wife gave birth to a stillborn baby. A week after that, a fire broke out in their dining room and a wonderfully multilingual parrot was burnt to death. A week later his wife’s mother went in for exploratory surgery, and when the surgeon saw what was inside her, he simply sewed her up again. We’re still waiting for her funeral, but it won’t be long now. You wonder how one family can survive so much in a month. Yet, incredibly, they do.

 

Then, a week later, a young man died of a brain seizure. At seven he had given his heart to the Lord. At eight he was awarded provincial colours. He won them again at nine and again at 10. Then at 11, a terrible accident took place. The family was up on the farm clay-pigeon shooting, and he stood too near to the machine, and the arm that flings the clay pigeons into the air struck him on the side of the head. He was in a coma for seven weeks, and in rehabilitation for two years. He never played sport again. His personality was disjointed, and his behaviour became ugly and erratic. Life was one long struggle for him and his parents. Then, at 19, the damage finally broke loose in his brain, he had a massive seizure, and died. It was wonderful to have such great truths to preach at his funeral: that the blood of Christ cleanses us from all sin – past present and future; that when he knelt, aged seven, and accepted Jesus, it was counted to him as righteousness for life. None of his behaviour or struggle of the past eight years could ever negate that, and he was now fully restored and with his Lord in glory. I don’t know how people live without these truths.

​

Of course, we sang “Amazing Grace.”