I wrote this poem about Mrs. Brown, a resident at the nursing home where my father lived. We held Sunday services there and she attended regularly. We came to know and dearly love Mrs. Brown. She called my husband her “graveyard pastor” and asked him to preach at her funeral.
She came to church, though wheelchair bound.
For service, dressed so fine.
And when the preacher, preached the Word,
She shouted “take your time.”
We looked for her, when Sunday came,
She loved her Jesus so.
This church we had, imagine that,
Was in a nursing home.
Old Mrs. Brown, one day she asked,
The preacher, play a song.
A song unknown, we had to learn,
But knew it before long.
Guitar in hand, we were prepared,
She heard her song, so dear.
Up in her room, we sang and praised,
and sensed that death was near.
My graveyard pastor, that you are,
My husband heard her say.
You preach the word, just like I’ve heard,
You do it every day.
A way with words she had, but yet,
You’d hardly see a frown.
A story told, that once she said,
“Time has slow walked me down.”
It wasn’t long, before she’d gone,
With love our hearts did swell.
And preach he did, when gathered all,
To say their last farewell.
So now the place, where she would sit,
Is empty, she’s not there.
But grateful are we to the Lord,
Her life we had to share.
This ministry to old and sick,
A gift from God to me.
The ministry from them to us,
Much greater, now I see.
Peace in the Valley’s melody,
That was upon her heart.
One last request from Mrs. Brown,
So glad we had a part.
Cathy White 2007 ©
Psalm 116:15 Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his saints.