The Five Shovels

Let me tell you about the day that changed my life.

It was January.

Cold. The kind of cold where you don't want to stand outside any longer than you absolutely have to.

We had a burial that day, and I was still fairly new to funeral service. I was learning, and one of the people I learned from was a man named Jasper Ironcloud.

Jasper had been in funeral service for forty-five years.

He knew families. He knew communities. He knew traditions. And he knew things about funeral service that you don't learn sitting in a classroom.

I learned a lot from Jasper.

But there was one thing Jasper and I didn't agree on.

Shovels.

I know. Of all the things two people could disagree about.

Shovels.

At these burials, people don't simply stand back and watch their loved one being buried.

They help.

Someone takes a shovel and begins. After a while, maybe they get tired. Maybe they're hot. Maybe they're freezing. Maybe it's raining and they're soaked.

Whatever the reason, eventually they hand that shovel to someone else.

That person takes a turn.

Then another.

And another.

People come forward and help bury someone they loved.

It is one of the most intimate and meaningful things I've ever had the privilege of witnessing, and I learned something from it every time.

But back then, there was a question about whose responsibility it was to bring the shovels.

The family's?

Or the funeral home's?

I was told over and over:

The family brings the shovels.

Jasper was very clear about it.

It's the family's responsibility.

But something in my gut kept bothering me.

I kept thinking, But what happens the day they don't?

What happens when we get all the way to the cemetery and nobody brought the shovels?

Because this isn't an ordinary day for that family.

This is one of the hardest days of their lives.

They're grieving. They're trying to remember a hundred different things.

Why should I expect them to remember the shovels too?

Somewhere inside me, I already knew the answer.

Grab the damn shovels.

Seriously.

I knew better.

I knew there was going to come a day when somebody forgot them. And I knew that when that day came, nobody standing at that cemetery was going to care whose responsibility they technically were.

There would simply be a grieving family standing at a cemetery without shovels.

And then that day came.

We arrived at the cemetery.

No shovels.

Immediately, I knew.

I should have grabbed them.

Nobody had to tell me.

The family hadn't brought them.

I hadn't brought them.

And there we were.

Someone had to drive miles back to a house to get shovels.

While we waited, the family did what families so often do.

They figured it out.

There was an old cracked flowerpot.

So they put dirt in it.

And they passed that cracked flowerpot from person to person, doing the best they could to continue burying their loved one until the shovels arrived.

I have never forgotten that flowerpot.

I remember standing there watching them and feeling horrible.

This family was already living one of the worst days of their lives.

Instead of making that day easier, I had made one little piece of it harder.

They didn't need one more thing to figure out.

They didn't need one more problem.

They were carrying enough.

And I knew I could have prevented it.

All I had to do was grab the shovels.

That day changed something in me.

Suddenly, I wasn't thinking about whose responsibility something was.

I was thinking about something completely different.

What can I do before a family gets here to make their hardest day just a little easier?

That became a question I carried with me.

Eventually, it became much bigger than funeral service.

What can I notice before someone has to ask?

What can I prepare before someone realizes they need it?

What small burden can I remove from someone who is already carrying too much?

Because compassion isn't always some enormous act.

Sometimes it is remembering the shovels.

I wish I could tell you Jasper and I drove home that afternoon, had a wonderful heart-to-heart conversation, hugged, agreed that we'd both learned something, and lived happily ever after.

We did not.

We were mad.

Really mad.

Both of us thought we were right.

And somewhere along the way, that disagreement became much bigger than five shovels.

For the next year and a half, Jasper and I barely spoke.

We didn't work together anymore.

We didn't call each other.

He deleted me on Facebook.

He even ghosted me on Snapchat.

Jasper was considerably older than me, so the Snapchat part still makes me laugh.

But underneath the humor, we were genuinely hurt.

Two stubborn people.

Both convinced we were right.

And we let a year and a half go by.

Then Jasper got sick.

Really sick.

His health had been failing for months, and his eyesight was getting worse.

One day, I happened to be at a gas station.

Somehow, of all the places we could have been, Jasper and I ended up walking toward the same door at almost exactly the same time.

It was uncomfortable.

Really uncomfortable.

I held the door.

I knew he couldn't see very well, so I said:

“Jasper!”

He asked, “Who is it?”

And I said:

“It's Kim. Kim LaFramboise. Remember? You taught me how to be a funeral director.”

And suddenly, the shovels didn't matter.

The argument didn't matter.

Who was right didn't matter.

A year and a half of stubbornness didn't matter.

There was just this man standing in front of me who had spent forty-five years serving families.

A man who had taught me.

A man who had challenged me.

A man who had helped shape the funeral director I became.

And I knew I might not get another opportunity.

So I told him I was sorry he was sick.

And then I told him what I should have told him a long time before.

Thank you.

Thank you for everything you taught me.

It was one of the hardest things I've ever made myself do.

And it became one of the things I am most grateful I did.

Three months later, Jasper died.

I'm grateful I walked through that gas station door that day.

I'm grateful I didn't let pride have the final word.

And I'm grateful Jasper knew before he died that underneath all of the anger, all of the disagreement, and all of those damn shovels, I was grateful for him.

Jasper taught me how to be a funeral director.

The families taught me how to love people.

And somewhere along the way, I realized those weren't the same lesson.

I'm not a funeral director anymore.

And I am incredibly grateful for that chapter of my life.

It gave me families I will carry in my heart forever.

It gave me teachers.

It gave me Jasper.

And it taught me lessons I don't think I could have learned anywhere else.

So yes, the title changed

.

The heart didn't.

And those five shovels?

For years, I thought they taught me how to be a better funeral director.

Boy, was I wrong.

They taught me how I wanted to live.

Pinky promise. ❤️