funeral — W. Clay Smith Blog

I drive in a lot of funeral processions. It’s an odd part of my job. Usually I’m placed between the funeral director’s car and the hearse. Most of the time the processions are short: from the funeral home to the cemetery, or from the church to the cemetery. Occasionally the cemetery is out of town and the journey is a little longer.

Funeral processions do not move quickly, usually about thirty or forty miles an hour. I’m not sure why. Maybe it feels more mournful. In most of the South, the procession is escorted by police. If you’re driving in the South and you see a funeral procession, it’s customary to pull over. It’s a sign of respect. You honor a life and a family when you do.

Last week, I was asked to officiate the funeral of a man whose family attended our church. He did not attend, but I had met him a time or two. The man had put in twenty-four years of active service in the Air Force and went back to work as a civilian contractor. A motorcycle enthusiast, he was killed when his bike hit a concrete median.

When I pulled up to the church for the service, I was amazed. There were at least a hundred Harleys in the parking lot. The deceased was part of a bike club that rode together and socialized together. His biker buddies had shown up in force for the funeral.

After the service, the bikers mounted up and a hundred Harleys roared. The lead escort of bikes was followed by a biker with two American flags flying from the rear of the bike. The police escorted us to the county line at the normal funeral procession speed, but once we crossed the Wateree River bridge, with the motorcycles in the lead, the pace picked up. We were headed to the Fort Jackson National Cemetery. As I drove behind the Harleys, I thought about the bikers. Most of them were over forty. You could tell some were retired, but most appeared to still be working. They were decked out in leather and denim, and there were more tattoos than average, but they were there to honor their buddy and support his family. They had taken off time from work or from home to be there.

At the cemetery, the bikers dismounted, stood in quiet reverence during taps and the rifle volleys, and listened to Psalm 23. When I said the final “Amen,” and spoke to the family, they moved forward to offer hugs, offers of help, and once again, share their own grief.

The next day, I was headed to North Carolina to pick apples with my wife. At Newberry, I saw an enormous fire truck, a ladder truck on an overpass. Its ladder was extended full length and an American flag was flying from the top. Then I remembered: Greenville County Deputy Sherriff Conley Jumper had been killed in the line of duty. His funeral was in Greenville, but they were burying him in Newberry.

We drove further up the interstate and I noticed State Troopers blocking entrance ramps, so Deputy Jumper’s procession would not be interrupted. People were standing on overpasses, waiting to salute.

Then we saw the flashing blue lights. Two State Troopers were in the lead. Then some Greenville County Sheriff’s vehicles. Then the hearse and the family limo. Other family cars. Then more police cars. And more. And more.

If you’ve never been to a law enforcement funeral service, brother and sister first-responders come from all over the country to form an honor escort. Deputy Jumper’s service was no different. I saw cars from just about every city and county in South Carolina. There were fire trucks and ambulances. Not every car had a sticker, but you could tell some were from out-of-state. The procession stretched out at least ten miles or more.

These law enforcement officers were doing exactly what the bikers had done: they gathered to show support, to be there, to share the grief. I think, but I’m not sure, that bikers and officers share a bond with each other. Unless you’ve been on a bike, you can’t really understand what it’s like. Unless you have responded to a call, siren blaring, you can’t really understand what it’s like. You have to be there.

When God sent his son Jesus to earth, he was emphatically saying, “I do understand what it’s like. I’ve been there. I sent my Son to earth so you would know I know what life is like. I know grief. I lost my Son. But I raised him from the dead. I do not want you to grieve as people without hope. In the face of death, put your hope in me.”

God has been there. God is here. And God will be there.

The young man discovered his wife was having an affair with a cop. They talked. She wasn’t sure what she wanted. The next day when he came home from work, the cop and his wife were sitting at the table. An argument ensued. At a heated moment, he reached on top of the refrigerator and pull down his pistol. The cop started to get up. The young man said, “Maybe this will convince you.” He put the pistol to his head and pulled the trigger. He was gone.

I officiated at his funeral. It was my first funeral of a suicide victim. The family asked a friend, a talented guitarist and singer, to sing two Garth Brooks songs: “The Dance” and “Much too Young.” The young man’s wife, his widow sobbed through the whole service. There were no words I could say to take away her shame, guilt, and grief. We buried that young man on a cold Kentucky hillside.

I wish I could say that was my last funeral of a suicide victim, but it wasn’t. Sometimes people act impulsively, like the young man. Sometimes the pain of living is so great, a person feels like they can’t go on. Sometimes a person feels alone, isolated. They truly feel like no one cares if they live or die. Suicide seems like the best option.

Once, when I had to do a funeral for a person who took their own life, God put in my mind the thought of fog. Ever been in a fog so thick you couldn’t see? A fog so dense you didn’t know where you were? That’s what life is like for someone who commits suicide. They have lost their way in the fog. Suicide seems to be the only way out.

I’ve been asked more than once if people who commit suicide are barred from heaven. The answer is “no.” The manner of a person’s death does not determine their relationship with God. When a Jesus follower chooses to end his or her life, I think Jesus meets them with a mixture of sadness, because they have arrived at heaven early, and compassion, because he understands their pain.

The title song for “MASH” was “Suicide is Painless,” but that’s a lie. I’ve held mothers who have wept over their child’s tragic decision. I’ve stood by fathers who look at the casket holding their child with a vacant stare, searching for the answer to “why.” I’ve sat with a wife and daughter trying to fathom how their lives changed in a moment by choice they had no part of. Suicide leaves devastation in its wake.

Words do not quench the pain of suicide. A good friend of mine from college lost her husband to suicide. She shared with me that one pastor came by and, meaning well, began to talk to her about all the stages of grief. She remembered thinking “I wish he would just shut up.” What did help was a friend who came and just sat. Didn’t say much. He was just there. Sometimes the most holy thing you can do is just be there.

This same friend told me it helped that people had not forgotten her. She still gets texts from people asking how she is, expressing concern, extending care. A funeral marks the start of the grief journey, not the end. People need support, encouragement, and presence on that journey. They need you to be there.

The people left behind after suicide have to wrestle with doubt: “Could I have stopped him? Was it something I did or said? Was I not enough for him or her?” People come to me during the grief process and ask, “Why did God let this happen?” It’s not time for a discussion on free-will and the sovereignty of God. I tell people it is okay to be angry at God and not even know why you’re angry. When my children were small, they would get angry at me, not because I had done something to hurt them, but because I was safe. They knew I would not stop loving them, even if they were angry. God doesn’t stop loving you in your pain. He is safe. You can pour out your heart to him.

If someone you care about has ended their life, I will not offer the flippant advice that “time heals all wounds.” What I believe is this: Our heavenly Father loves you, will listen to your pain, will guide you, and will give you strength. You don’t have to be put together. You can be real with your Heavenly Father. Your grief is his grief.

If you are thinking about ending your life, if that dark thought dances through your soul from time to time, I want you to know there is hope. There are people out there who care about you. You are not a burden. The most courageous thing you can do is not end your life but reach out for help.

Psalm 30:5 says “Weeping may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning.” Your life is a precious gift. If you are in the dark, reach out for help. Hold on. Joy is coming.

The National Suicide Prevention Hotline is staffed 24 hours a day - 1-800-273-8255