The Funeral

Author's Note: The following is a true account that I wrote on April 24, 2013. I would like to collect and share some of the stories that I have written. This one happened while I was on my route for the United States Postal Service. I hope to add more stories that pertain to my job considering the likelihood that the Post Office may cease to exist some day. 

 

Yesterday I was delivering mail on Mesa Hills Drive when a silver sedan pulled up alongside me. An older gentleman, probably in his eighties, got out of the passenger side holding a piece of paper and came toward me.

“Can you help us, sir? We're lost and can't find the church and we're late to a funeral.” 

It is not uncommon for us as postal workers to be asked directions. But to receive a plea from a person who is wishing to find the place where he can pay his last respects rarely comes. In fact, I have never seen it. 

He pulled out a piece of paper with the obituary and some hand-written directions on bottom. “The address they have here has got to be wrong, doesn't it?” – I examined it, and without a doubt, it was incorrect. The obituary stated 1925 east, and clearly, that point did not exist, and we were at nearly 1925 west. And as for the written directions, they were messed up also – take a right on such and such a street that doesn't even exist. But, reinterpreting the address, I determined that it had to be the church just a couple blocks away. 

“We just drove past a church over there,” the old man stated, “and nobody was there.” 

That didn't sound right. There was only one church on this hill and I was determined to get them to their funeral!

“Let me drive you there,” I insisted. The old man was happy with that as he pranced back to the car. The driver was his daughter, a younger lady also dressed in her Sunday best. I led the way in my postal vehicle through the maze of streets on the hill. The church wasn't too far away, but I didn't want them lost. They were late! 

We pulled up to the church. No one there.

I walked over to the passenger-side window and peered in at the frustrated couple. 

“It's got to be here,” I said. “It's the only church on the hill.” He pulled out the paper again with the directions and obituary. The deceased man was Leslie Brower, a person I was familiar with and who lived on my route. I began skimming downward to the date of the funeral⸺Monday, April 22 at 9:30 am⸺the obituary stated. I read it out loud. “I know,” the man said. “Today is the 22nd.” 

“No it's not, Daddy. Today is the 23rd. Tomorrow is your birthday!” 

At this realization, the man's face immediately became sullen. He looked downward in devastating introspection. 

“I am very sorry,” I offered the man. “This is awful.” Indeed it was. I said this with every genuine feeling I had. I had just experienced my own daughter's funeral and knew how important a funeral can be to bring closure to a broken heart. 

“No. I am the one who is sorry. That man was my best friend growing up. We were inseparable.” 

There was little left to be done. His friend by now was in the ground, never to be exhumed. 

I offered to drive them over to Leslie's house, hoping there would be a family member still at home. They gladly accepted and I led them to 1945 west 265 south. They pulled up at the curb just behind me. There was one white pickup truck with an elk decal parked in the driveway. 

“Yep, this is it,” he said. “I've been here before and it looks familiar.” 

I moved on my way, but prayed all along that someone was home to greet them. That's what they needed in this time of tragedy. ♠