A few ministers can be real thorns in our sides. The senior pastor of one large Baptist congregation was not fond of my former boss. The good reverend of sixty years was married to a parishioner thirty years his junior—a woman notorious for her fine jewelry and tight-fitting clothing—much to the embarrassment of the congregation. The first time my former employer caught sight of the couple was when the reverend came to the funeral home to attend a visitation. My boss asked in a loud voice, “Who’s the hooker with the minister?”
Over the next few months of obituary reading, we couldn’t help but notice that other funeral homes were servicing deceased members of that congregation. When I was finally able to arrange a funeral with the minister, I asked on our way to the cemetery why he had been avoiding us. He proceeded to rail on and on about my boss and finally admitted that he’d encouraged his congregation never to enter our establishment again.
Years ago, Catholic parishes were small neighborhoods of only a few streets, and parish members exclusively patronized the local funeral home. These days, with folks moving to suburbs and declining enrollments, that relationship has also slowed. Also, Catholic dioceses in some cities have begun building funeral homes on Catholic cemetery property and then goading parishioners into using those homes: “The local diocese would appreciate it if you would consider the funeral home on our cemetery grounds when the need arises.” The church’s use of its tax-exempt status to construct a for-profit funeral home will probably be the last straw in straining our relations.
Many years ago, I held several funerals at a fundamentalist church, where the minister promoted himself and his facility at every opportunity. “If Mr. Jones could rise up out of that casket and talk to you right now,” he’d bellow, “he would tell you to come here every Sunday morning, every Sunday evening, every Wednesday evening, and every Saturday evening. If you want to hear the true word of God, then you must come here!”
At one particularly rousing service, he came down from the pulpit and brought the whole front row of family members to tears—of anger. The deceased was a forty-five-year-old father who’d left a wife and twin sixteen-year-old daughters. Both girls were high school cheerleaders. The minister pointed his finger directly at them and shouted, “If your daddy could rise from death today, he would tell you two to stop displaying your bodies in wicked ways with those little cheerleader outfits.” Although most of the congregation voiced agreement with hearty rejoinders of “Amen, brother,” the family was not pleased.
That minister was known to “tell it like it is.” He once declared to those assembled at a funeral service that the deceased, a divorced man and known drinker, was no doubt “in a devil’s hell, in a lake of fire, with not a drop of water to cool his tongue.” Once again, attending family members were not happy.
The minister’s congregation was not shy about sharing their beliefs, either. As I was manning the front door at a visitation one evening, a member of his congregation asked me where I went to church. When I responded, she said, “Well, I really feel sorry for you, because you are surely going to hell.” When I asked why, she responded that only her church members would ever get to heaven.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Behavior in general, along with styles of dress at funerals, has reached new lows. I suppose this is reflected in other aspects of modern life as well—even churches encourage folks to come as they are, and airline travelers no longer don their Sunday best, not even in first class. So teenagers attend funerals wearing rock-band-emblazoned T-shirts, cutoff shorts, and sandals. Girls float in wearing hip-hugger pants that expose not only their bellies but also the cracks of their buttocks.
Adults may dress a bit better, but their actions leave much to be desired. Some who attend visitations stand right outside the funeral home door, venturing inside for only a moment to sign the guest book and make their presences known—but otherwise they puff on cigarettes, spit tobacco juice, and spew raw profanity accompanied by plenty of raucous laughter. Not exactly a pleasant experience for more respectful mourners who hold their breath as they walk through acrid clouds of smoke, dodge puddles of brown phlegm, and close their ears to offensive language.
Rude smokers continually astonish me by flipping cigarette butts into our decorative mulch and onto our pavement or by stubbing them out in our concrete entryway. I’ve even seen people emptying their overflowing car ashtrays into the funeral home’s parking lot.
Children at funeral homes are always a sticky subject, depending on their ages and maturity levels. We funeral directors don’t appreciate being drafted as baby-sitters, but unfortunately, such is often the case. Four-year-old Jimmy and three-year-old Janie have no business being allowed to roam free and unmonitored in a place filled with distraught, weeping grownups—and untold opportunities for getting into mischief.
I have seen small children knock over flower vases; push over lamps; yank every tissue out of a box and then toss all of them onto the floor; pull pictures off walls and onto themselves; jump off chairs and couches; remove couch cushions and hurl them onto the carpet; repeatedly kick walls with their new leather shoes; pitch entire rolls of toilet paper into commodes; turn restroom water faucets on and leave them on; slam doors over and over; and rub their dirty fingerprints on walls, molding, and door glass. What gets me most is any parent who thinks it is so cute when Junior holds the front door open for visitors, thereby letting out the air-conditioning and letting in flies and other insects.
Parents, occupied with greeting visitors, can easily fail to keep track of their brood. But I have heard a few declare that they expect my staff (and me!) to watch their children while they speak to relatives. One informed me that I needed to build a playground on the property to keep her children occupied.
I am all for allowing little ones to view and say good-bye to deceased loved ones, but if they are unlikely to remain at their parents’ sides or in the custody of an older sibling, then they should be left at home.
The elderly funeral director for whom I worked in the 1970s told me that you could always tell the class of people at a visitation by the number standing outside smoking—or by the number who strolled in carrying bottles of soda pop. I provide coffee and soft drinks at no charge, but at least once a month I kick myself over it. When something is free, people often have no regard for the amount they consume. I expect some lack of discretion among children, but I actually have more problems with adults. Grown men and women will exit a funeral home with three or four cans of soda tucked under their arms for the ride home.
After questioning a lady about this once, she said she was taking a can home to her mother who couldn’t make it to the visitation. And after watching two overweight little boys consume six pops apiece in one evening, I told them that they’d had enough. Their mother overheard and cursed at me for denying her sons the pleasure of a seventh soda. I hark back to the wisdom of my 1970s employer: he said that the mark of a classy bunch was a visitation during which no one set foot in the coffee lounge. That crowd did what they were supposed to do—sign the register, offer words of sympathy to the family, view the deceased, and leave quietly. But when serving and opening one’s facility to the public, those from all walks of life (and upbringings) will show up at your door.
One evening I happened upon a woman rummaging through the lounge cupboard.
“What are you looking for?” I asked from the doorway.
She looked up, startled. “Coffee,” she responded. “I thought I’d make some.”