My phone rang at work this past Sunday. Not an unusual occurrence, even less so since it was my husband calling. My hello was met with “You want some more bad news?”

No. No, I do not. Why would anyone want bad news, let alone more bad news? That was my first thought, immediately followed by:  one of the dogs is dead in the middle of the road; he ran over one of the cats pulling into the driveway; there’s a tree down over the driveway and I’m gonna have to hike uphill two tenths of a mile in the dark to get to the house; someone broke into the house; the house is gone. In a matter of seconds I concocted all manner and kind of evil before asking, “Now what?”

“George Williams died.”

My stunned silence spoke more of my disbelief than my questions that followed. He was a friend. He was a co-worker. He was a good man, too young to be dead—especially since he was my age.  He was an indispensable part of our operation. He was . . . he was . . . he was . . . always in the past tense, no longer in the present. The list continued indefinitely and the hours and days began to move in slow motion as we prepared to say good-bye, to take care of George and his girls as he had taken care of us.

If you look at the cartoon versions of funeral directors, we’re often rendered as almost vulture-like, waiting . . . patiently waiting . . . dressed all in black with shoulders hunched and hands clasped behind our backs, necks craned forward, heads cocked to one side as we anticipate the approach of Death. After all, it is our livelihood. It puts food on our tables and a roof over our heads and the little pleasantries of life within our grasp.

Nothing could be further from the truth. You may not believe this, but I hate Death. I hate hearing the phone ring and seeing the secretary reach for a first call sheet. I hate seeing the families come through our doors, clothes in hand, pictures ready, eyes red and swollen from crying or lack of sleep—or both. I never, never want business to “pick up” when Death seemingly takes a holiday; I would gladly find something else to do with my life if no one ever died again. You see, we see the raw emotion, the overwhelming pain when Death first strikes. We feel the loss that we cannot alleviate—and we know that every time that phone rings, the odds are greater that the loss will be ours. We know you must be careful what you wish for; it is why we never do. There are times you will not like how it is granted.

So if this job is so terrible, why do we continue to do it? Why subject yourself to such heartache and pain? I have cried more tears over George than I have in a very long time. Wouldn’t it just be easier if I could go home and not face his family, not see him in this very natural yet surreal and unacceptable state? Yes. Yes, it would. But Death is not going away, at least not today. There are still those who are hurting, still those who need or want a guide to aid them in the process of saying good-bye, someone they can look to for advice and counsel and clarity in the fog that grief brings. It is a path we have chosen to walk with them, a calling and a ministry that is ours. Despite our own sorrow, in spite of our own loss, we will continue to walk that path with those in need, knowing that one day we will need someone to walk with us.

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