Ties, Funerals, and Gentle Shoves

How I wish I could tell you that I cannot remember the last time I wore a necktie. Unfortunately, I can.

I remember because I’ve had to knot that slippery piece of cloth around my neck at least six times this year. Not once has it been for a wedding, a graduation, or even one of those dressy dinners where somebody tries to convince you snails are “a delicacy.”

No, every single time, it has been for a memorial or funeral. Today it was for Dave Mencarelli.

Now, funerals usually wring the joy right out of me. I sit there thinking about the last conversation I had with the person, the last laugh, the last handshake, and the hundred things I should’ve said but didn’t.

Then I notice how tight the necktie is and start plotting my escape before I pass out. But today was different.

Oddly enough, I wasn’t sad. Instead, I found myself quietly rejoicing because Dave was ready, having been baptized, and he spoke openly—without an ounce of embarrassment—about his love for Jesus. That changes everything, as it meant this wasn’t a farewell so much as a “see you later.”

It struck me as strange at first. Grief is supposed to be heavy, like a wool blanket in July.

Yet, in this case, it felt more like a gentle breeze nudging me along. I’ve come to think of those nudges as the Holy Spirit’s way of giving me a push in the middle of my back.

You know the kind—like when your friend is hesitating at the edge of the swimming pool, and someone comes along and gives them just enough of a shove to get them moving. They land in the water sputtering, but afterward they say, “Thanks, I needed that.”

Well, I think I’m getting one of those shoves.

For a long while, I’ve hesitated about writing more openly about my faith. I worried I might lose readers.

After all, nothing clears a room faster than someone climbing onto a soapbox and shouting “repent!” at the top of their lungs. I promised myself I’d never do that, but still, the fear of being labeled “too churchy” lingered in the back of my mind.

But here’s the common-sense truth: people don’t gather at funerals to hear about how popular somebody was. They gather because that person mattered, because they left a mark, and because there’s comfort in knowing they’re not gone forever.

Dave left me with that comfort. And if my writing can offer even a sliver of that kind of hope, then popularity can sit in the corner and pout.

It’s funny, really. We spend our lives fussing about things that don’t matter—whether our tie is straight, whether our shoes are shiny, whether our jokes land properly at the dinner table. Then one day, we sit in a pew, listening to people talk about someone who’s passed on, and suddenly all that polish and pretense falls away.

What matters is love, kindness, and, yes, faith.

I know this much: I don’t want my life to be measured by how many “likes” I got or how many people thought I was clever. I’d rather be remembered like Dave—for having peace in my heart and the courage to speak it aloud.

So maybe my tie is doing me a favor. Every time I tug at that knot and wonder how many minutes of oxygen I have left, I’m reminded that life is short and not to be wasted. If it takes a necktie and a funeral to push me a little further down the road of faith, then so be it.

One day, I hope someone will sit in a pew at my service and say, “Well, he sure did ramble on, but at least he finally wrote about what mattered.”

If that happens, I’ll count it as a win. Until then, I’ll keep writing, tie or no tie, shoves included.