Listening to the still, small voice

Tommy Barnett passed away just this past week. But not before daily spending half a century consoling and comforting bereaved families. Tommy helped countless people at what was likely the most emotionally searing event of their lives - the death of a loved one.

Tommy was part-owner and the funeral home director of Weavers Funeral Home in Bristol for decades on end.

I was personally privileged to watch Tommy work his labor of love at many a funeral service over the years.

Tommy once whispered to me, “Ben, suicides are the hardest. No matter how many I see, they break my heart every time.”

I asked Tommy, “How in the world do you console a family when a loved one dies that way? What do you say?”

Tommy replied, “I don’t ever have a set answer, Ben, really. I just say what I feel the Lord tells me to at the moment. Sometimes I say nothing. Sometimes it’s just a kind look or a pat on the back that says what needs to be said. It all depends on the needs of the family.”

Then Tommy looked almost embarrased. “Ben, I am sorry. I apologize. That sounded too much like braggin’. I promise you I didn’t mean it that way at all, my friend.”

Which only made his prior words all the more powerful. True humility has a way of doing that for us, if we’ll let it.

It’s true that I personally never heard Tommy repeat exactly the same words in exactly the same way twice, not at any service or visitation at which I heard him speak.

Now imagine how hard that is to do for a funeral director who served over half a century. I would think you’re likely going to utter the words, “I’m sorry for your loss,” and “I’ll be praying for the family”, more times than I could imagine.

But Tommy had a unique way of making every situation different and unique. Even when using the same words. Because Tommy knew that every family was different and unique.

Listening to Tommy’s voice was like listening to warm syrup flow. Never loud or harsh. Always gentle. Always reasurring. Tommy knew that the Almighty speaks to us, not so much in fire and brimstone, but softly and gently, as in a “still, small voice”, the Voice to which Tommy strived to listen … and emulate.

One time while standing in line, I asked him, “Do you ever get afraid of dyin’, Tommy, doin’ so many funerals like you do?”

Tommy replied, ”Death can be a scary thing, Ben. No doubt about it. None of us really knows what lies beyond the grave. All we have is faith, hope and love.”

Then I butted in and finished the verse for Tommy, “And the greatest of these is love.”

Tommy said nothing to me in reply. But his bright eyes twinkled. It was his “Amen” stamp of approval to the highest degree, flashing those twinkling eyes of his.

Over the years, I was privileged to drop by and visit Tommy and his dear wife, Debbie, at their home a few times. The last time I visited them, a couple years back, Tommy had fallen ill. Most of us who knew him truly didn’t expect him to live much longer.

When I asked how he was doing during that visit, Tommy told me, “Ben, I’ll be fine. I promise. If I make it a little longer, I’ll be blessed. If I die right now, I’ll be blessed. Either way, I am richly blessed.” Then his face fell into that famous gentle, sincere grin. “Now how can you beat a deal like that?”

That was about as close as I ever heard Tommy come to verbally preaching a sermon, I suppose. Tommy seemed to me to aptly follow the words of St. Francis of Assisi, “Preach the Gospel at all times … and if necessary, use words.”