Glad He is Gone …

When I was a pastor in Louisville, I stopped by the hospital to see Tom.  I heard he was not doing well.  I had been Tom’s pastor for three years at that point and knew him as a grumpy older man who had married a younger woman.  Though his children were in their twenties, he was over seventy.   

His youngest daughter was in the room when I entered.  I was told Tom’s health was failing, but it didn’t take a doctor to see Tom was not long for this world.  It was obvious Tom could not communicate, so I asked his daughter how he was.  She told me the nurse said he could die at any time.  I went to the other side of Tom’s bed so I could pray with him and took his hand.  It was already cold.  Tom was taking shallow breaths.  Then he stopped.  Unlike other people I had seen die, there was no space between breaths.  He just stopped breathing.   He had, as we say in the South, passed. 

His daughter on the other side of the bed looked at me, her face a question.  “Is he dead?” she asked.  I told her I thought so.  What shocked me was her response: “Good.”   

If you do what I do, being with grieving families is part of the job.  At the time, I had limited pastoral experience.  Most families weep, or they go into a state of shock when their loved ones pass.  My surprise must have been evident, for Tom’s daughter went on to say, “I am glad he is gone.  He did terrible things to my mother and to me.”  There were no tears for Tom’s daughter, just a hard expression as she looked at her dead father.  She told me in a no-nonsense voice, “You stay here.  I’ll get the nurse.  I do not ever want to be alone with him again.” 

The nurse came in and confirmed Tom had no pulse.  She wrote down the time of death, then asked us to step out of the room so she could clean him up.  Tom’s daughter said, “I will call Mama.  You stay here.”  It was strange to be taking orders from someone my own age, but she had steel in her voice.  Before the nurse finished, she came back and said, “I will tell the nurse which funeral home we will use, but I am not going back in that room with that man.” 

The nurse emerged, and Tom’s daughter gave her the necessary information and then left.  She did not tell me goodbye.  I stood there foolishly for a few minutes, wondering what had just happened, finally realizing I might as well leave too. 

Tom’s funeral was not the strangest funeral I’ve ever done, but it ranks in the top five.  When planning the service, the family shared no sentimental stories, no fond memories.  During the service, Tom’s wife and children shed not one tear.  By the time we got to the cemetery, I was ready to get this over with; apparently, so were they.  I read Psalm 23, spoke a few words about hope, and prayed.  When I said “Amen,” Tom’s family got up and made their way back to their cars, leaving friends and family behind.  Their every action and expression told me they were done with this man.

I stayed at that church for another two and a half years.  I tried to get Tom’s wife and daughter to open up about the pain Tom caused them, but they were not willing to crack that door.  For some folks, feelings are buried at the graveside. 

I thought about Tom off and on for years.  What could he have done that was so horrible?  Did he sexually abuse his daughter?  Did he beat his wife?  Was he condemning and judgmental, tearing down those closest to him?  What makes a man so angry at his own children that he would abuse them?  Why didn’t Tom’s wife leave him and take the children?

 Tom died over thirty years ago.  His funeral would not be the last I did where the family did not cry.  I stood by other caskets and read expressions of relief on the faces of spouses and children.  Their nightmares were over.

 When Tom died, I was the father of one.  Two more children would be born to me.  Tom’s funeral was a lesson for me.  I promised myself that I would do my best to never be the kind of Dad that my kids were happy to see die.

 When you think about it, maybe that was the one good that came from Tom’s death.  How sad.