It is hard to have patience with people who say, “There is no death” or “Death doesn’t matter.” There is death. And whatever is, matters. And whatever happens has consequences, and it and they are irrevocable and irreversible. You might as well say that birth doesn’t matter. 

C.S. Lewis

The simple wooden casket was set on the far side of the plain and somewhat shabby room in northwest Indiana. Silence filled the space in an unearthly and uncomfortable way. I didn’t recognize the reason why at first, but then it dawned on me: the room was unearthly-silent because it was uncomfortably empty. In this room filled with dozens of empty chairs, there were just two people. And a casket. One open casket. 

The two individuals, an elderly woman and her middle-aged son, were seated side by side in the row of chairs nearest to and facing the casket. The elderly woman clutched a handkerchief in one hand while her other was cradled in the hands of her son, seated to her left. In silence, they sat before the open casket of her husband, his father, waiting for the mourners they knew would come. The mourners who never came. 

I silently approached this grieving widow and son. After quietly greeting them, I sat in the chair next to the son.  

 For two hours, I sat with them. For two hours, I prayed for them (and for me), ministered to them, and sat in silence with them. For two hours I grieved for them. Not just for their loss, but for them. In their pain, they had counted on the comfort of friends who would come to share their sorrow and pay their respects, but not one person came.

And so, they were not just lonely: they were alone. Their loss was made all the more unbearable by the absence of anyone to share their sorrow. The absence of others was palpable in the room, its weight crushing their hearts and mine. 

As the scheduled time of visitation came to an end, I helped them with their coats and walked them to their car in the equally empty funeral home parking lot. I reassured them of my prayers on their behalf and God’s presence and comfort in their lives. I assured them of my commitment to do my very best for them and their departed husband and father in the funeral services of the next day. It was all I could do to hold myself together emotionally as we said our final goodbyes that evening.After their car had pulled away into the darkness of the night, I fought to hold back tears as I made my way to my own car. Seated behind the steering wheel, I fought no more, but gave way to my emotions, weeping for this family of two and the empty, aching pain that overwhelmed them.  

Sitting alone in my car, I prayed. Helpless and hurting, I prayed. My prayer was a simple and heartfelt one: “Heavenly Father, break my heart. Break my heart for these two people. Let me mourn with them – not just for them, but with them as a member of the family so that as your servant, I might serve them as you would serve them.”

The next day, God answered my prayer. My wife and I preached, prayed, sang, comforted, and ministered as if there were only two people in the whole world. Because in the world of that room, that’s all there were. At the funeral home and the graveside, we mourned as members of the family, and we ministered as the heart and hands of God extended. In our own need of comfort, we comforted; in our own sorrow, we were able to extend God’s grace. All from hearts broken by the heart of the God in heaven whose heart first and most deeply broke for the one deceased and for the ones he had left behind.

You may wonder why I was so surprised at the lack of turnout for this funeral or why it was that my church did not come out to support this grieving mother and son. The answer lies in the fact that this family of two was not a part of the church where I served: I was just their pastor in their time of loss. 

The senior pastor I served under at the time had opened to me the opportunity to officiate funerals for families without a home church. Grieving families would contact our church because of previous connections with us or on the recommendation of a local funeral director. Eager to serve in any way I could, I accepted as many of these requests as I could. These calls led to dozens of ministry opportunities as I walked with individuals and families in their grief, their losses of all kinds: the expected and the unexpected; the old, the young, even infants; the believers and the unbelievers. I spent many hours with mourning family members in hospitals and homes – at bedsides, in living rooms, and at kitchen tables – as they waited for the death of a loved one or after the fact, as they struggled to come to grips with the all too present and personal reality of death.

In the parking lot of that funeral home that night, behind the steering wheel of my car, I prayed a prayer for the first time that I have prayed many times since: “Father, break my heart for this family; let me mourn as a member of their family even as you enable me to minister as your heart and hands extended.” It is a prayer I continue to pray to this day. And it is a prayer God has never failed to answer. I thank Him for it. 

Often, the grave buries two hearts. 

José Luis Navajo

Editor’s Note: The article above comes from the book, “When the Call Comes,” a resource that helps pastors address the many ministry responsibilities – and privileges – associated with pastoring people through mourning:

• meeting with the family for the first time;

• funeral service planning;

• the visitation service;

• the funeral service;

• the graveside and more.

Included are funeral resources designed to help the minister prepare. It gives pastors the theological basis and practical steps they need to share the journey with those who mourn.

“When the Call Comes” (paperback version) is available here on the Journey website (CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE VIA PAYPAL). When you purchase directly from Journey Pastoral Coaching, your purchase goes farther in helping us pastor young pastors across America and overseas.

Ebook and paperback versions are available at your favorite online retailer.

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“In the early years when I was becoming a pastor, I needed a pastor.” 

 Eugene H. Peterson, The Pastor: A Memoir