I stand behind pulpits and podiums,
smile through scripture, break bread with the broken,
but behind the suit and dress shirt
my heart is cracked glass.
See, they say, “Pastor, it’s part of the job,”
like grief is a line in my call papers.
Like funerals come with the welcome packet.
Like burying saints is just part of the benefits package.
But they don’t see what I see.
They don’t feel what I feel.
Every casket is a chapter closed too soon.
Every grave is another goodbye
I never wanted to say.
They say “time heals all wounds,”
but ministry just keeps opening new ones.
See, I don’t count members. I carry them.
Not in spreadsheets, but in stories.
Not in numbers, but in names.
Their faces flicker through my prayers
the baby I baptized now gone in her sleep,
the widow who sat in row four, seat one,
always humming harmony when no one else would sing.
The man who fought the bottle,
then cancer, then finally gave in
not because he lost,
but because heaven finally whispered, “Come home.”
I feel their absence like silence in a sanctuary.
Loud. Echoing. Unshakeable.
They were more than attenders.
They were family.
And every loss
feels like I’m losing blood, kin.
They ask, “How do you keep going?”
How do I stand again on Sunday?
How do I preach hope when my own heart’s
buried six feet under with someone I loved?
Because Hebrews 12.
Because Jesus.
Because “for the joy set before Him,
He endured the cross…”
Joy wasn’t comfort.
It wasn’t ease.
It was resurrection on the other side of grief.
It was reunion beyond the tomb.
It was us, you and me,
being with Him forever.
That was His joy.
And now, that’s mine too.
So I preach through the pain.
I worship through the weeping.
Because there’s joy at the end of this night.
Because the tomb still stands empty.
Because Jesus still calls them by name
and one day, I’ll hear those names again.
They’ll rise.
We’ll laugh.
No more sermons, no more tears.
Just the great reunion,
and the final amen.
Until then,
I endure.
Source: www.derrickhurst.org