The Coach’s Challenge

I remember seeing my mother in anguish at the funeral, but her grief didn’t end there. As I got older, I’d sometimes catch her in prayer, with tears gently sliding down her cheeks. When I asked her what was wrong, she would share with me, “I’m worried about whether Pop went to heaven.”

—HEAVEN IS FOR REAL, 89

Todd

I’m a small-town guy, and that means I wear a lot of different hats. It’s what small-town people do. I’m a pastor and a businessman. (I still work for the garage-door company I used to own.) I’m also a volunteer firefighter and still love to coach wrestling. Sometimes I switch hats so many times during the day it’s hard to keep track of which one I’m wearing at any particular time. They all blend together. Those of you who live in rural America know that’s how small towns work. It might seem strange to city people, but to small town folk, this lifestyle is normal.

Right now I’m wearing my coach’s hat. So this message is primarily for the men who may be reading this book. Women, it’s okay if you read what I say here; it’s possible it might apply to you too. But in my experience, this message needs to be heard by men.

Pop, my maternal grandfather, was a good, hard-working man. He went to church every now and then, and he talked about the typical things men discussed in those days. Growing up, I knew he’d be at the doughnut shop most mornings to meet his buddies and talk about whatever was going on in town or on the farm—crops, the weather, someone’s new truck, things like that. But he never brought up his faith, at least not to my mom. Never talked about spiritual things. So when he died, he left my mom (his daughter) wondering. And not just musing idly about his eternal destination but worrying and fretting so sorrowfully that it impacted her life for years after he died.

All unnecessarily.

Some of you men reading this are all too much like Pop. I’m not questioning if you love your families or not. I’d just like to ask you . . . how much?

Here’s how things could have been for my mom as she grieved for her dad. I recently buried a friend named Wilfred. It’s always hard to preach a friend’s funeral, but Wilfred’s funeral was the opposite of how Pop’s funeral unfolded all those years ago. Like Pop, Wilfred was a hard-working man, fiercely loyal to his family, and a good provider. A few months ago, Wilfred had to undergo open-heart surgery. Before the operation, he pulled me aside to talk, and he said, “Todd, I want you to know this: I’ve told my kids and my wife that everything is okay between me and God.” (Wilfred was a member of my congregation and many times had heard me give this same challenge I’m now sharing with you.)

Wilfred made it through the surgery, and we began to pray hard for his recovery. (In the next chapter we share how our son Colby prayed for Wilfred.) For sixty days, we thought God was answering our prayers, and we expected Wilfred would soon be back among us, resuming his busy life. But then he died, and as his pastor, I was called upon to preach his funeral.

Was the funeral sad? Yes. Everyone cried, including the pastor preaching the sermon. Do we miss Wilfred? Yes, every day. But while we mourn our loss, because we can’t help but miss this friend who meant so much to us, nobody has to ask where Wilfred is. We all know. Most importantly, his family knows. Because he had told them.

Wilfred’s funeral was what Christian funerals are supposed to be: a celebration of a life well lived. Yes, and also a time for loved ones to mourn. But that funeral was completely different from Pop’s—and so many others’—because each of Wilfred’s immediate family members had been told by Wilfred, not their pastor, that Wilfred was square with God. He had been forgiven, he’d given his life to Jesus, and things were good between Wilfred and God.

I didn’t have to reassure anybody. Wilfred had already done it. He had manned up. He’d had that discussion with his family, and as a result they had unwavering assurance and confidence about where he was spending eternity. It was the best gift Wilfred could give to his family—one that I, as pastor, never could have given them.

Men, if you ask your wives if they’d like you to talk with them about your faith, what do you think they will say? (And if the shoe is on the other foot, then women, consider this question directed at you with regard to your husband.) If you’re hesitant to ask, then let me be her voice for a minute. Let me speak for your kids and grandkids and your closest friends: yes, they would love for you to tell them you’re square with God and that you have accepted Jesus as your Lord. Believe me, it’s a lot more reassuring coming from you now than when it comes at your funeral from some pastor who may or may not know you. They need to hear it from you.

My mom needed to hear it from her dad, but Pop didn’t tell her. In his defense, a reasonable man would have thought he had time. Pop didn’t know he was going to be killed in an accident two days after he made that decision.

So the years passed, and my mom wondered and worried whether she would see her dad again in heaven. Only when Colton came back from heaven and told us he’d met Pop there did we know for sure. Then we learned from a relative that Pop had attended a special service in a little country church just two days before he died and had quietly raised his hand when the preacher asked, at the end of the sermon, if anyone wanted to give his life to Christ.

Because he didn’t tell his family, Pop left his family, including his daughter (my mom) wondering if she would ever see her dad again. So she spent twenty-eight long years not knowing about her father’s decision that night.

What a difference Pop could have made by coming home from that little church, gathering his family around him, and happily saying, “I want to tell you something . . .”

What comfort he could have given them.

Let me tell you, peace at a funeral is a precious thing. And let me tell you something else that I’ve learned from firsthand experience: the deceased person can give his or her family way more peace than any pastor ever can.

Men are taught to take care of their families, to buy life insurance and make other financial arrangements so their loved ones will be okay if the husband-dad dies first. But something much more important than life insurance is the confidence of knowing you’re right with God. Man up! Tell them! Give them that gift.

And if you haven’t asked God for forgiveness and accepted Jesus into your heart, take care of that—now would be a good time—and then have that talk with your family.

It’s not your pastor’s job to give your family peace at your funeral. It’s yours. So man up! Take care of that responsibility right now.

The jailer called for lights, rushed in and fell trembling before Paul and Silas. He then brought them out and asked, “Sirs, what must I do to be saved?”

They replied, “Believe in the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved—you and your household.” Then they spoke the word of the Lord to him and to all the others in his house. At that hour of the night the jailer took them and washed their wounds; then immediately he and all his household were baptized. The jailer brought them into his house and set a meal before them; he was filled with joy because he had come to believe in God—he and his whole household.

—Acts 16:29–34 NIV