When my wife’s Grandpa McDowell died, we drove from Iowa to Michigan for his funeral. The family had asked if I wanted to preach the message, but deciding I was too close to the situation, I declined. After all, I needed comforting, too. The McDowells had no church affiliation, so the funeral director recommended a minister in the area to officiate.
At the funeral, the speaker eulogized my wife’s grandpa in four minutes. He mentioned grandpa’s name only once in passing and read a “canned” prayer from a booklet. He certainly didn’t know Grandpa McDowell; that much was obvious.
As the family, we felt hollow, empty, cheated. Following the service, we gravitated toward the casket. My wife’s eyes portrayed an agony I had never seen before. Her eyes begged me to do something, anything.
I breathed a silent prayer and asked the family to gather in a circle. As we stood, arms intertwined in front of the casket, I spoke of Grandpa and what he meant to me. I mentioned the whitetail deer he shot out his kitchen window while drinking his morning coffee. I mentioned that he lied about his age to enter the military in World War I. In China during the war, he fought “our guys” with boxing gloves in a ring. Grandpa also held dozens of patents for his inventions, and he had traveled all over America collecting stones for his Rock Shop. With misty eyes I recalled how he had given me some of his tools. “Every man should have tools,” he had said. I acknowledged that I had the tools but still could not use them.
I spoke of our pain and loss, then of Jesus, who could heal our grief and give hope. I closed with prayer, and we left for the funeral dinner.
That day I learned personally of the comforting power of stories and the impact of personalized funerals.
Stories begin the healing
When I began Judy Phillips’s funeral, the funeral director went to his office to wait for the closing prayer. But after he heard the audience laugh, he slipped into the back of the auditorium to listen. I had included stories about pancakes, shoes, and meals for grain threshers. On the way to the cemetery, the funeral director mentioned how he enjoyed the stories about Judy.
If people are interested in the lives of others they have never met, how much more are they interested in stories of loved ones? After all, what do people talk about at funeral dinners? Stories and memories of the deceased are what they enjoy and what begins the healing process.
In The Grief Connection, Marjorie Gordon wrote about the loss of her 25-year-old son. She suggested sending stories to the grieving family to comfort them: “Write about a special moment. Like medicine for our broken hearts were the letters from Dave’s friends. Many were from people we hadn’t seen in several years. Some we have never met. Each searched to get our new address. Word pictures beginning, ‘I remember when Dave and I . . .’ recounted special moments that brought laughter and tears as we read them.”
When I have written such letters, I have found that sharing stories comforts the heart of the storyteller as much as the receiver.
Why are stories of the deceased so important to us? Perhaps because they are all we have left. We may still have the fishing pole that Grandpa gave us. Or the photographs of our vacations. Or Grandma’s rocking chair.
But these items are only important because of the memories they hold. The fishing rod reminds us of the summer day he gave it to us and how he loved fishing with his grandkids. The squeaking chair reminds us of Grandma rocking and singing us to sleep.
Stories help us move ahead
Stories of the deceased also guide us through the stages of grief.
When my Grandfather Atkins died, I found that preparing for the funeral helped me stumble through the first steps of healing. Recounting stories of family reunions moved me past the paralysis of shock. Sharing memories with loved ones at the “viewing times” before the casket confronted my denial.
Memories of his teasing the grandkids guided me as I dealt with sadness and depression. All the funeral activities-the visiting, the stories, the recollections, and the funeral sermon itself-confirmed my loss.
Before the funeral I knew intellectually he was gone. After the funeral I felt emotionally he was gone. The memories were still fresh; there was much healing ahead; but the funeral signaled to me it was time to move on.
The compassion, empathy, and relevancy of the funeral message will determine greatly how well I minister to the loved ones and how people feel about our church and its relationship with the community. I have found that few things help me to do this more effectively than the stories I tell for those who mourn.
-Kenn Filkins
Gilmore Church of Christ
Farwell, Michigan
Adapted by permission from Comfort Those Who Mourn, by Kenn Filkins (College Press, 1992).
Copyright © 1993 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.
