A funny thing happened at a graveside service one warm autumn afternoon. The preacher was at the gravesite, the pallbearers stood behind him, and the family was seated on folding chairs facing them. The preacher talked of the deceased’s good qualities, and indicated that his kindness and selfless Christianity made it more than likely that Johnny A. had passed through the pearly gates to his final, glorious reward.
Old “Pitts” D., whose wheelchair was faced away from the grave, couldn’t hear that the service had begun. Pitts had been hard-of-hearing for many years, and was accustomed to speaking very, very loudly. His gravel voice boomed out and overpowered the preacher’s kind words. Pitts literally yelled, “That son of a b—- didn’t have a good bone in his body, and he never was any damn good. I told that bastard I’d dance on his grave, and if I could get out of this damn wheelchair, I would! I don’t know much, but I know that bum is burning in hell!
I was the funeral director, but I couldn’t get to Pitts to shut him up in time. The damage had been done. The truth is, though, that everybody there (except the preacher, who had never seen Johnny in church in his life) knew that Pitts was right!