A Piedmont Porchlight Story

People ask me from time to time why I retired from Magnolia Mortuary. They usually expect some dramatic answer. That I’d simply grown weary of funerals. That I’d seen too much sorrow. That one particularly heartbreaking service finally broke my spirit.

Truth is, none of those things happened. I retired because one funeral quietly told me my work was done. It wasn’t the biggest funeral I’d ever handled. Wasn’t the smallest, either. There weren’t any television cameras. No elected officials. No twenty-one-gun salute.

Just a church full of people who’d come to say goodbye to someone they loved. I’d arrived early, same as always. Old habits die harder than old undertakers. The flowers had been arranged. The register book lay open. The family room had fresh coffee, tissues, and one of Miss Hattie’s coconut cakes that somebody always seemed to bring when words weren’t enough.

By the time the first visitors arrived, everything was exactly as it ought to be. Or as close as this side of Heaven ever gets. What I remember most isn’t the service. It’s the sound. Not crying.

Laughing.

Lord, those people laughed. One fellow walked up to the casket, looked down for a long moment, shook his head, and said, “You old rascal… you finally got out of buyin’ coffee.” Half the family laughed. The other half cried because they knew exactly what he meant.

A little while later, two sisters were trying to remember the year their daddy accidentally backed his tractor into Terrapin Creek. One said 1972. The other insisted it was ’74. Before long, three cousins had joined the argument, and every one of ’em was smiling.

You’d have thought they were planning a family reunion instead of attending a funeral. Then came my favorite moment. A little boy, maybe six years old, tugged on his grandmother’s sleeve and whispered loud enough for half the church to hear,

“Why’s everybody laughing if we’re supposed to be sad?”

She looked down at him, brushed his hair back, and smiled through her tears. “Because, sweetheart, that’s what happens when somebody loved you enough to leave you good stories.”

I nearly lost my composure right there. In forty years, I’d heard Scripture quoted thousands of times. I’d heard ministers preach about hope, grace, and eternity. I’d heard choirs sing hymns that could make the hair stand up on your arms. But I don’t know that I’ve ever heard a better explanation for a funeral than the one that little grandmother gave.

That’s what happens when somebody leaves you good stories.

The service itself was beautiful. Simple hymns. Simple prayers. Simple people. Exactly the kind of funeral I’d always hoped I’d have someday. Afterward, folks drifted out into the churchyard. Nobody seemed eager to leave. Clusters of old friends stood beneath the oak trees swapping memories.

Somebody was laughing again. Somebody else was crying. Most were doing a little of both. That’s when it struck me. For forty years, I’d thought my job was helping people bury the dead.

Standing there beneath those trees, I realized I’d had it backwards. My real job had been helping the living remember. The flowers would fade. The food would all get eaten. The sympathy cards would find their way into dresser drawers. But those stories; those would keep that man alive another generation.

As I walked back toward the hearse, I caught my reflection in one of the side windows. For just a second, I saw an old undertaker looking back at me. Not tired. Not sad. Just finished.

The next morning, I sat down with the owner of Magnolia Mortuary and told him I thought it was time. He asked if I was sure. I smiled. “For the first time in forty years.”

He reached across the desk and shook my hand. Neither one of us said much after that. There wasn’t any need. Some conversations know when they’re complete.

Folks still ask me if I miss the funeral business. Sometimes. I miss the people. I miss the quiet dignity. I miss seeing neighbors carry one another through the hardest days life has to offer.

But mostly, I miss the stories. Because I’ve learned something that no mortuary school ever tried to teach. A good life isn’t measured by how many people come to your funeral. It’s measured by how many of them leave smiling through their tears because of something you once said, or did, or because you bought the coffee often enough that they’ll laugh about it long after you’re gone.

If that’s the kind of farewell I get someday, Well…

I reckon I’ll have lived just about right.