You Couldn't Do What I Do

"I couldn't do what you do."

Oh, how many times I've heard that one.

When I began working as a funeral home employee, I quickly realized that this profession was shrouded in mystery. Somewhere was a curtain, drawn between the stateroom and the Control Room where the Wizard moved levers, pulled chains and spoke into a microphone. Being allowed to pass back and forth through this curtain gave me a perspective that few people have.

We in the profession see dark things. We will often find ourselves literally up to our elbows in unimaginable situations, our goal in this gruesomeness being to create a situation or a picture of a loved one that is more positive than a previous image of pain, suffering, discomfort or loss of health and/or wits. It's not a perfect art nor a perfect science, but it is a little of both. In doing what we do, we fight against the Created Order. Most often, we win, but sometimes we lose. The human body, as it turns out, rebels against preservation after death.

Usually those who say those words assume every case, every family, is an emotional investment. If that were true, then who would want to do this job? Not me, for sure. Truthfully, there is virtually no emotional wear-and-tear in my life, profession-wise. It's a job. Some might think I'm cold and unfeeling, but these aren't my family members and are almost always strangers. I believe the truly weird thing would be feeling such a connection with humanity that you were grieved in each and every one of these situations.

Babies, children, young adults, young married people, mothers and fathers of all ages, then of course the senior adults, having lived their lives completely--all types come across our tables or see our fires. Another common assumption is that I find myself undone when the "injustice" of a child's death or the death of a baby becomes business. Frankly, this is still just business. I may take a little extra care when I handle a baby. It is thankfully a rarer situation, and I know somewhere there are suffering parents, so I take a little more care than if it were an octogenarian whose death was wholly expected. A little more care, I say, as the attention I give those with full lives is also complete. I wouldn't be truthful though if I didn't admit to being a bit more deliberate with children.

As a Christian, my job gives me much to think about in relation to my beliefs as well. I assume that a majority of the deceased are indeed not going to a better place. After all, "the way is easy that leads to destruction, and those who enter by it are many." (Matthew 7:13) God is the judge, though, and I will not profess to know the redeemed from the unrepentant. When you hear the testimony of family and friends during the course of the services, you will occasionally hear evidence that seems to support one or the other, yet I will ultimately not know. 

Yet as a Christian, I have an enduring confidence that, for whatever reason, God's will is done. The flaw in human thinking is in believing that we have the capacity or right to understand that will. I don't know why little babies die, or even if there is a "why". I do know that God is in charge and that what He wants will be done, and that this will is perfect and good, regardless if I understand or not. Therefore, thoughts of injustice rarely enter my thinking on the job.

It's true that what I do, regardless of my personal philosophy, is weird. I stand behind that curtain, pulling levers. I step out in my suit of nice clothes and hope that people are comforted. Sometimes, I want to say, "Hey, I embalmed your mother. Doesn't she look nice?", but I don't say that. Still, there are often times I stand next to a loved one on a stainless steel table, muse on my profession and think, "What a weird job I have." I could tell you stories. You would agree. 

Also, you could do what I do. I'm no saint and I'm no weirdo.  It's just a job.