Death of a preacher

The grandson’s voice was hesitant on the phone. He was calling on behalf of his grandmother, who expected her preacher husband to be buried in the quiet cemetery behind the first church he had served decades ago. I was the pastor now.

Perhaps the widow assumed I was younger and less experienced than I looked. Perhaps it was the pain of her grief that led her to condescend when she informed me I was not to preach at her husband’s funeral, just read the scriptures (which had already been chosen, she said). She must be so sad, I thought to myself. I said nothing of the disrespect.

So the church gathered on a Saturday to surround the widow with love. She sat in the front pew, a tiny mite of a woman with sharp, steely eyes, in a dark blue dress. As I read her required scriptures I tried to read her face. She did not look at me once. Did she know what was happening? Did she know he was gone? I prayed for her and her family then raised my hands for the benediction.