This is another of my writings from a 1999 seminar at Ring Lake Ranch. On this day we were each given a photograph about which we were to write. I was given a photograph of several grieving middle-aged folks standing in a kitchen. This could be, continued as a short story. But that is a project for another day. It is actually a composite of the dozens and maybe hundreds of such scenes that were a part of my ministry over the last 40 years. Going into a grieving home is one of the most terrifying and satisfying works of ministry.
The kitchen was spicy, clean and casserole crowded. I entered, nodding at Mae Sweet who was leaving. Her husband Ned, already starting the truck, had given the Vermont forefinger salute with his left hand as I drove past him into the barnyard. As I entered the kitchen from the mudroom, the smell of fresh coffee, old tears, bourbon, beer, and beans announced the purpose of the day. Phyllis Gould was washing the dishes. ”They are in the dining room, Rev. ” she said. ”want a coffee before you go in?”
“Not yet, thanks. Maybe something in a little while.”
“Just holler.”
That dear old dread pulled again at my stomach as I went through the same door I had entered one or twice a month for the past three years. The table was full and laden with cakes and pies. A twenty-year-old with a John Deere green cap stood up and cleared a place for me unbidden. Kissing an older woman on the top knot of her hair, the kid left, closing the door with had been half-open.
“Hi Paul,” said Frieda, “you know our sons Jim and Harold.
“Sure do.” I shook their hands, noting Jim’s eyes meeting mine with what was nearly anger and almost relief. Hal just shook his head as if he could shake off his grief. ”I’m really sorry. I thought he was going to be OK.”
“I know, Paul, your prayers and all the church’s meant a lot to him.”
“We don’t want no hymns,” said Jim. ”We want it simple.”
