When I learned about a former parishioner鈥檚 death from a mutual friend, the Preacher and I didn鈥檛 question whether to attend her funeral. Of course we鈥檇 go. Dorothy鈥檚 family (name changed) regularly attended our last church. A few years earlier, the Preacher had officiated at her husband鈥檚 funeral. Both were precious friends 鈥� the sort of people who make a clergyman鈥檚 job a joy.
鈥淚t鈥檚 Saturday at two,鈥� the Preacher said, quickly checking the announcement on the funeral home鈥檚 website. We cleared our calendars, inserted 鈥淒orothy鈥檚 funeral,鈥� and prepared a card.
At the funeral home, we noticed a pair of casual friends in the foyer. I watched as they greeted people with hugs and earnest conversation.
Small world, I thought. I never knew they had a connection to Dorothy, I thought. But then, the city鈥檚 not that big, I thought.
I hugged them. 鈥淗ow lovely of you to come,鈥� she said, seeming surprised. 鈥淭hank you for making time,鈥� he said.
鈥淲e wouldn鈥檛 have missed it,鈥� I said. 鈥淏ut how were you connected to Dorothy?鈥�
鈥淒orothy? Dorothy? Don鈥檛 you mean Rhoda?鈥� (name also changed).
I fumbled, suddenly sensing that any words I managed must first pass through the toes of the foot I鈥檇 unwittingly stuffed into my mouth. I glanced over at the Preacher. He seemed equally discombobulated.
The husband spoke, his voice kind. 鈥淎re you perhaps at the wrong funeral home?鈥�
I looked around. Couldn鈥檛 be. I saw someone I knew had also known Dorothy. One of those 鈥渆verybody鈥檚 out of step but my Johnny,鈥� moments darted into my synapses. Clearly, THEY鈥橠 come to the wrong funeral! 鈥淚 don鈥檛 think so,鈥� I stammered. 鈥淭he website said Saturday at two....鈥�
Clarity struck with a disheartening thud. No. Somehow, we鈥檇 ended up at the funeral of the husband鈥檚 mother. Rhoda. A vibrant, caring woman we鈥檇 met just once, at one of my book signings. We both remembered her well.
Clarity struck our friends too. I saw it on their faces. We hadn鈥檛 shown up to support them at all. We鈥檇 crashed their family funeral. Arrived by accident, not intention.
I wanted to run. I wished to be vaporized. I prayed to be transported.聽
The Preacher found his tongue. Managed the perfect words. 鈥淥h, no. We鈥檙e staying right here.鈥� Grabbing my elbow, he steered me, still stuttering, into the chapel. Once seated, he checked his phone. 鈥淩ight place, wrong date,鈥� he whispered. 鈥淒orothy鈥檚 funeral isn鈥檛 for two weeks.鈥� I faced forward, mortified, wondering if our friends would ever talk to us again.
As the service progressed, as the familiar holy atmosphere of sacred readings, loving farewell and fond memories surrounded us, I calmed. Rhoda鈥檚 son and his wife have a reputation for blessing others, including us, with their quiet kindness and cheer. Suddenly it seemed that we were in exactly the right place 鈥� among other friends supporting them on this hard day. A Divine appointment.
Those who follow Christ are called to share each other鈥檚 joys and sorrows. I count that a privilege, even when it happens by accident.聽
