A One Eyed Dog & A Hand Dug Grave

Country Cemeteries always remind me of a one eyed dog, hand dug graves and musty sanctuaries.

The reason for this is due to an incident that happened early in my ministry.   My presence had been requested at a grave side service for a family that lived in Toronto.  This family had, years earlier, purchased plots in the cemetery related to one of the, now closed, churches of my pastoral charge.  I was asked to preside at the grave side service of a deceased elderly male.  His wife and adult children, along with the Funeral Home staff, would drive the 3 hours north from Toronto and meet me at the cemetery at 1:00 p.m. 

Upon my arrival on that hot and humid July day I was met by a friendly one eyed dog that took his job as host very seriously and kept close to me for the remainder of the day.  It soon became clear that this cemetery was his home and among the long grass and weeds one had to step carefully.  I made my way to a dirt covered man who was busy digging the grave with a pitch fork and shovel; that was the way of grave digging in this neck of the woods.  Before returning to his work Syd told me that this was the last plot to be filled in this cemetery and it would be officially full. 

About half an hour later, off in the distance, I saw a hearse approaching followed by a few cars.  It was then that the Syd approached looking a bit upset and asked if I had a key to the old church building beside the cemetery.  Yes, I did have the key but the building, which leaned dangerously to one side, was condemned.  “Open it up and have the family wait in there.  We have a problem.”

I nervously unlocked and slowly opened the heavy doors of this tired old building to be met by an earie scene.  The hymn numbers were still in the hymn board at the front of the sanctuary, hymn books were laying on the torn pews, candles poised on the communion table and an open Bible laid across the pulpit.  It looked as though a worship service had just happened days earlier.  I stood in the silence almost expecting to hear singing rise out of nowhere.  As the confused family filed in they also paused, looked around and carefully took seats close to the back doors.  The musty space did offer a break from the oppressive heat that hung just outside the doors and for this we were thankful.  I went back outside to discover what problem had arisen.     

A rather upset Funeral Director approached me in his three piece black suit and while wiping his forehead explained that Syd had discovered a body was already in the plot!  In complete disbelief I looked over to the plot to see Syd and three others looking down.

After some discussion and a confession by one of the sons the mystery was solved.  It turned out another family member had been buried there four years earlier; an estranged son of the deceased.  We were told that this son had been estranged from the family for many years, caught up in the wrong crowd and one night had died.  Not wanting to upset his parents this son arranged his brother’s burial in this forgotten cemetery.  Thankfully, it was the same funeral home four years earlier that had accompanied his mother on this hot July day.  After a few phone calls it was confirmed that this burial had been recorded, they had paper work to prove who was in the plot and there was no criminal intent.  With Syd’s quick thinking a second plot was quickly dug.    

I asked this one son to take me to sit with his mother as he explained what had happened.  The mother did not speak English but no words were needed for me to understand her grief; the language of a mother is universal.  I sat with her as she grappled with the news of her son’s death while waiting to bury her husband.  Perhaps the setting of an old, sad looking sanctuary fit the scene perfectly. 

Eventually, we made our way out to the plot and with the one eyed dog by my side we continued the service.  The Mother did not understand a single word I said but she did understand the actions and when we were done she knelt down at both plots and marked them with the sign of the cross before standing tall and walking back to the car. 

Syd, the one eyed dog and I stood silently by as this sad procession headed down the road toward Toronto.

Each Halloween I think of that sad day so long ago and wonder what other odd and unusual stories are hidden among the graves of old country cemeteries.

Blessings,

Rev. Heather McCarrel