She called from the hospital. A sweet, old great-grandmother who lives alone on a big ranch, Velma hauls her own wood, feeds her own horses, and kills rattlesnakes when she has to. So she has authority when she asks me to do something.
“Pastor, my brother Virgel is here in intensive care and he’s not going to make it,” Velma said. “He’s in a coma and his kidneys and liver are starting to shut down, and he don’t know the Lord. Could you please come down here?”
I pastor a small church in Tiller, a tiny mountain town in southern Oregon. If you knock on any door in downtown Tiller, there’s a one in five chance that it’s my house. The other 400 people live at the ends of dirt driveways off dirt roads, some so long you wonder why anyone would live out so far. The hospital is an hour away.
I found Virgel’s family in the waiting room. After greeting them, I went into the ICU where I prayed for a comatose man I didn’t know. Then I walked to the hospital chapel and prayed again, discussing this strange situation with the Lord. One thing was clear: Velma did not want her brother to die without knowing Jesus.
The next day, Velma called again. She had sat at the hospital all night, waiting for a miracle. Not seeing one yet, she asked me to come and pray for Virgel again. My schedule is flexible, but I complained to the Lord all the way down the mountain. “God, if this becomes a precedent, I’m not going to get anything done except make trips to town trying to lead unconscious relatives to Jesus before they breathe their last! I don’t think this was in my job description.”
When I got to the hospital, I was in a mood to delegate. I suggested that Velma go into Virgel’s room with me, and that she pray for his healing. Velma wasn’t sure she could do that, so I coached her how to pray real straight and simple. Virgel’s son didn’t want his dad getting upset, but I convinced him that his dad already knew he was doing poorly.
After getting the nurses’ permission, we walked into his room. Velma ignored the tubes and machines, and prayed for her brother straight from her heart.
The next day, Virgel was out of the coma and in a regular room.
I’m not much of a personal evangelist, but I felt a responsibility to use the time God had given Virgel to share Jesus with him. So I made another drive down the mountain. There I found a groggy man who didn’t know me, had just been through a bunch of tests, and was trying hard to be gracious to me. I asked if I could come another time. He sighed a very relieved “thank you” and started snoring.
Two days later I made another trip down to find that Virgel had been moved to the therapy wing, and no visitors were allowed. A few days later, Velma told me her brother was back home. I drove up the canyon to see him, but his wife wouldn’t let me in.
A week later Virgel died.
Things didn’t make much sense to me until Virgel’s son Ed called to ask me to do the funeral. Ed was the only child in the family who followed Jesus, and it was Ed who told me the rest of the story.
After he came out of the coma, Virgel got quality time with his family. Virgel’s granddaughter told him the good news that Jesus wanted to save him. Virgel repented of his life spent apart from God and received the salvation God wanted him to have. He lived his final days as a new person.
The day he died, his whole family was gathered around his bed. His last words were “be there.” Ed asked if that meant he wanted all his family to join him in heaven. Virgel nodded.
That was a funeral I didn’t mind doing. I talked about an old mountain man getting two extra weeks from God to get his soul squared away. I told how God directed me, despite myself, to stay out of the way when he had other plans. And I told about Virgel’s final words. Velma glowed.
As a small town pastor, those words mean even more to me. One of the hardest things for me is to just “be there.”
It seems my job would be more satisfying if my days were filled with seminars and appointments, counseling and committees. Having a web page or writing articles would be good too. Concrete stuff. But pastoring in Tiller has a lot of just “be there” days. Stacking wood with a friend, painting a barn, driving around with someone, sitting at church reading books, praying for each church member.
I’m learning the value of that. I might get more satisfaction from a day of accomplishments, but if every day is crowded with my to-do list, Velma won’t call me again. She’ll think I’m too busy. I’ve decided that if I want people in my town to see God’s kingdom, I have to “be there” for them now.
Jim Moon pastors South Umpqua Community Church 27160 Tiller Trail Highway P.O. Box 205, Tiller OR 97484
Nice Eulogy, Wrong Man
The funeral where I wanted to die.
In a former church, I presided at the funeral of an inactive member, a man I had never met.
Hearing of his death, I called his wife and arranged to meet with his family, hoping my pastoral care would help draw them into the life of the church. While there I gleaned as many details as I could to help craft a eulogy. Though I didn’t know him, I wanted to offer a tribute that was both comforting and personal.
When I arrived at the funeral home the morning of the service, the director handed me the obituary. The name listed there was different from the name the family had called him. One of the names must have been a nickname, I figured. So I decided to go with the “official” name listed in the obituary.
During the service I dutifully wove the name into the eulogy to make it more personal. I spoke of Joe’s accomplishments and those Joe left behind. Halfway through my message, I noticed the man’s son and daughter-in-law glancing at each other. She was anxious. He was sweating. Something was wrong.
I continued speaking about Joe until, a few minutes later, the widow blurted out, “His name was John!”
There was silence. Dead silence. I wished the earth would open up and swallow me whole.
Only later did I realize that the obituary had switched the dead man’s name with the surviving son’s name. The man I was eulogizing was staring at me—and blinking nervously.
I apologized and proceeded to eulogize the one in the casket. At the graveside, I again offered my most humble apologies. Joe mumbled, “It’s okay.”
They never returned to church.
From that debacle I learned to ask the family how they would like for me to refer to the deceased. And I check all facts with a family member prior to the service. I’ve found that in their grief, those planning the funeral—and even newspapers—sometimes provide inaccurate information. In either case, it’s my duty to bury the dead, not the living.
Steve Mansen is pastor of Central Christian Church 4901 Lake Shore Drive, Waco TX 76710
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