My Funeral Suit

It was 1979, and I was the guest song leader for a church’s summer revival (although it was called “a gospel meeting” because “revival” sounded too much like a rival religious group).

That evening’s service hadn’t started yet, and I was meeting and greeting the attendees—little white-haired ladies carrying black Bibles that were as old and worn as they were, old men using canes to hold themselves up, mothers with a string of small children held in tow simply by a look that said, “Behave, or I’ll be taking you outside.”

I don’t know if you were ever “taken outside” during a church service, but let’s just say I was a “frequent flyer” in the “taken outside” club. It was there that I learned the art of dancing in circles around my mother, my feet barely touching the ground, as she held one of my hands and spanked me with her other hand.

I know, I know...some of you feel abhorrent about corporal punishment, but I believe if it’s administered by someone who shows you every day how much they love you, that you know would be willing to die for you, it’s very beneficial.

But I digress.

One man I met, whose name I don’t remember, but whose lesson for me has remained, was clearly a farmer. His face was burnt-orange, but his forehead was lily white because it was shielded by what I suspected was an ever-present cap to shield his eyes while driving a tractor. This was back in the day before tractors became limousines with climate-controlled cabs to keep out the dust, rain, heat, and cold, back when a farmer had to be a warrior at heart, and he paid cash for everything.

He was wearing a plaid three-piece suit, a white shirt whose collar wasn’t quite large enough for his thick neck and therefore prevented his necktie from being pulled tight against his throat. And he was wearing a broad smile.

I introduced myself and shook his hand. My bones and knuckles cracked as his hand enveloped mine and squeeze.

“How do you like my funeral suit?” he asked.

I smiled politely, not knowing exactly what to say next.

He explained, “The doctors tell me I’ve got three months to live. So, I decided I needed to get ready. I went out and bought me this suit to be buried in. It’s the only suit I’ve ever worn. And I’m here tonight to make things right between me and the Lord.”

He was true to his word. When I led the invitation song “Why Not Tonight?”, before we reached the chorus of the first verse, he stepped out into the aisle, his face awash with tears, and came down front to confess his sins and be baptized.

Like I said, I don’t remember his name, nor do I remember what the preacher preached on that night, but I remember that man saying he was wearing his funeral suit.

In a way, we’re all wearing our funeral suits. Life is so fragile and can end so suddenly. Very few people are given an opportunity to “get ready to die.”

I’d like to believe if we knew we were going to die in three months, we’d put on a funeral suit (or dress) woven with threads of humility, love, compassion, and tenderness, and try living like our Savior did. And we’d start doing it today.

* Taken from The Wit and Wisdom of David Johnson, Volume 1: I Didn’t Know Donkey’s Could Laugh.