There was a small seminary in New England that specialized in training pastors for churches in small, rural towns. There was a student named Tom who came from a large metropolitan city area. Tom was a nice guy and enthusiastic.

Between his junior and senior year an opportunity arose for a summer pastorate in New Hampshire. Tom jumped at the chance. The day after final exams Tom packed his car and drove the six hours to the rural New Hampshire town.

Shortly after arriving at the parsonage Tom had to answer the landline phone.

“Hello, is this the summer pastor?” the lady asked.

“Yes, I’m Tom Claridge.”

“Well Parson Claridge, I’m a calling because Sister Dorothy Reynolds died three days ago, and they’re holding the graveside service this afternoon. You need to get out there quickly!”

“Just tell me how to get there and I’ll be on the way.” (This was long before GPS and cellphones).

Soon Tom was on his way with handwritten notes and a Bible in his hand. But, Tom was a city born and raised man, and was used to well marked streets and roads. Soon he became lost. And then more lost, and frustrated. After an hour had passed Tom decided to try and retrace his route and head back to the church and parsonage.

After he rounded one corner he spotted four men and a woman, with three of the men shoveling dirt into a hole.

“Stop! Wait, I’m here!” Tom hollered leaping from his car.

The men stopped shoveling and they all turned to observe Tom climbing up the small rise. “Let me at least read the 23rd Psalm and say a prayer.” They all nodded and stepped aside.

Tom gave a somber reading of the psalm, and a very nice prayer. After he said, “Amen,” he nodded at the three men leaning on their shovels and said, “You may continue.” He turned and walked to his car and drove away.

“Well, that was interesting,” the oldest man said. “In my 38 years of installing septic systems I’ve never had someone want to pray over one.”