In the course of a ministry that spans several decades, there are many unforgettable incidents. In this post, I want to relate one of them from early in my pastorate here in Indianapolis.
A family in our church lived next to to a family that did not attend Thompson Road Baptist Church regularly but allowed their children to ride our bus to Sunday School and church. They had a boy who was wheel-chair bound, due to a birth defect, and he was able to attend also.
One day, a local funeral director called me and said that the family who were neighbors to our church members had suffered the loss of an infant child. I do not remember the cause of death. But the family was planning a graveside service for the baby, and since I was the pastor of their neighbor friends, they asked if I would conduct the service. I was given the pertinent information about the time and place of the service and, of course, I agreed to conduct a service for the baby and family.
The day arrived and one of the deacons of our church, a retired employee of the Indianapolis Power and Light company, volunteered to accompany me. Henry knew how to get anywhere in the county because he had maintained lights on street lamps in just about every area of the city. This funeral was not in our city proper but rather in an outlying area; yet Henry knew exactly where the cemetery was and said he would give directions. In this pre-GPS era, I was glad to have him come along.
We left early enough to arrive at the small, rural cemetery with time to spare. Our trip would take us on Interstate 74, on the east side of Indianapolis. We headed out; it was a beautiful morning and—apart from a baby dying, for which there was a committal service—there was not a care in the world. Henry and I talked and, taken up with the conversation, neither of us paid much attention to where we were on the interstate. In time, I took an exit from I-465 E onto Interstate I-70 E, heading toward Columbus, Ohio. I kept driving and we kept talking, enjoying the scenery and the conversation.
After quite some time, I became concerned that the hour was getting late, and Henry had not advised me to exit from I-70 E. We were beginning to see signs that Richmond, IN, was coming up soon. I mentioned that fact to my deacon-guide, and his face began to get a bit red as he said that we should have gotten onto I-74 E, heading toward Cincinnati, rather than I-70.
I took the first highway heading south, hoping that we could soon pick up I-74, which we did in a fairly short time. Getting onto the right highway, we headed back a short distance to the cemetery, arriving probably 45 minutes to an hour late. Finding in that small cemetery the only grave that had been freshly dug, we were not surprised to learn that everyone had left. The only person there was a young woman at the graveside, an employee of the cemetery. With a shovel in her hand, she tossed one shovel full of dirt after another into the small grave. On the ground at the head of the grave, there appeared to be a small handgun which, since she was working alone, I assumed was for her protection.
Henry and I got out of the car and I, dressed as a pastor of course, slowly approached the grave, announcing to the young “grave digger” that I was the pastor who was supposed to have conducted the service for the family—but was late because we had missed our turn on the way to the service. I enquired as to how long ago the family had left, etc. The conversation was brief.
Though we had missed the “service,” I read a few verses from God’s Word, and Henry and I bowed our heads in prayer as the young woman stood by patiently in silence.
Before turning to leave, I looked at the young woman, then looked at the ground where the infant’s casket was now buried in dirt, the grave almost fully covered, and said to the young lady: “If this were your grave and your body was being covered in the ground below, do you know where your soul would be?” There were moments of silence—and, after 40 plus years, my memory is now a bit clouded—but I do remember that before we left, I gave her a brief explanation of the gospel, asking her to trust Jesus as her Savior and make certain that when her “burial” day came, her soul would be safe with her Savior. And she then bowed her head and prayed a simple prayer, asking God to save her. Rejoicing, Henry and I made our way back to the car and to Indy.
Yes, it was a terrible mistake, and I felt just awful for having missed the service. But I have been comforted by two things: (1) I did not arrive too late to lead that young woman to Christ on top of a baby’s grave, with no interruptions of any kind—just birds chirping hymns of praise in nearby trees; (2) I called the family as soon as I got back to church to apologize profusely for missing that special service. The mother was gracious, said she understood, and was very kind in spite of my (almost) “unforgiveable” error. And, in the years following, this same family called upon me again, several times, when other relatives, unchurched for the most part, needed a pastor to conduct a funeral service for them. We never saw the family become members, but we were “friends” over the many years to follow, and I had ample opportunities to share the gospel with the family at the many other services conducted for their family members. They forgave the “unforgiveable!” And, hopefully, another name was written down in the Lamb’s Book of Life on the morning that Henry and I “spaced it” on our way to a cemetery where one lonely grave digger needed to be saved.
“And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to His purpose.” (Romans 8:28)