grandmom's funeral

Right before Spring Break in 2004, my paternal grandmother passed away. I was in my final semester of seminary, rapidly approaching graduation. Grandmom had been sick for a while and in and out of the hospital. Although I should probably have been expecting the call, I wasn’t. Not really. She had made a series of good recoveries and I guess I just thought she would again.

Anyway, my dad calls me and tells me that Grandmom has died and it is time to come home for the funeral. I get everything squared away in Wilmore, Kentucky (where I am in school) and prepare to spend my spring break with family remembering my grandmother. While I am packing, my dad calls and asks if I would be willing to say a few words on behalf of the family at the funeral. Sure, no problem.

My dad calls again and says he has talked with Grandmom’s pastor and wants to know if I would do the “homily” at the service. Now, for a Methodist boy like me, homily is just another word for really short devotional thought. In my mind, I have just been asked to include some scripture in my few short words on behalf of the family. Sure, no problem.

I go flying off to Dallas where my dad lives. The day of the funeral arrives, Dad and Susan leave for the service. My little brother and I take a separate car – for some reason that I don’t remember, but had significant consequences. We arrive JUST before the service is scheduled to start. Somehow we got lost or ran late. I don’t remember, really. Actually, I only think it was my little brother in the car with me – considering I was most likely lost it seems unlikely that he was with me (that kid is like a breathing mapquest).

I digress. It doesn’t really matter why we were late (or even who was with me . . .) the important part is that I arrived shortly before the service began.

I walked into the holding room where my extended family was gathered to the relief of my parents who said the church pastors were looking for me. They needed to know what my Gospel reading would be. And whether I would be reading it or if I wanted one of them to read it for me. My confusion turned to inward panic when they handed me the bulletin for the service and there in the heart of the whole shebang was “Rev. Ryan Barnett” – homily. First, I am not a “Rev.” at this point. Second, I look in vain for the other “Rev.” with “sermon” by their name. Nope.

Apparently when you translate “homily” from Lutheran into Methodist it means “sermon.” Lots of prayers in a short amount of time.

My grandmother’s pastor finds me and asks me if I would like to “see their pulpit.” Sure, no problem. They ask if I want to go ahead and put my sermon in the pulpit now or if I want to hang onto it. “I think I will hang onto it,” I say as I pat my empty coat pocket.

In the end, it went fine. My grandmother was the kind of woman it is easy to speak of during a funeral. She was a Christ-centered, Godly woman who gave grace and love in abundance to everyone. She was loved in her family, her church, and her community. I think I am glad I didn’t really know what I was doing. I’m not sure I could have/would have done it had I known in advance.