Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction

My family comes from the hills of Tennessee. Actually, they come from the valleys between the hills. They came to the United States from Germany around 160 years ago after they left Schwerin, the capitol city for one of the districts in northern Germany. Grandpa always told me the location of the border after any given war determined which country Schwerin was in, but as I study history I’m learning he was probably misinformed.

After they left Schwerin they came through Canada, choosing the overland route and pausing in Ontario for a time before a couple members of the family continued on to the States. Those that pressed on ended up in Michigan, taking the train through Canada and continuing along the line that ended up on the shores of Lake Michigan where a new ferry service was getting started and jobs in both railroading and lumbering were plentiful.

Had they chosen the water route through the Great Lakes they probably would have ended up in southern Wisconsin with most of the others who left Schwerin about that time, but the then-rugged wilderness areas of southern Canada and West Michigan were more appealing to these young men accustomed to scratching a living from rocks.

By the turn of the 20th century my great-grandfather had made quite a name for himself in the Stearns lumbering interests in West Michigan, rising through the ranks to superintend the operations for Justus Stearns. So highly regarded was this strapping young 21-year-old that in 1903 Mr. Stearns gave him the opportunity to move to Stearns Kentucky to operate his new logging interests in the region.

It was here that our story really begins.

As was often true in lumber camps, life was rough and tumble, and accidents were common and often deadly. My great-grandfather was not immune.

Sometime after he had arrived in the area he had a serious accident, the nature of which was never shared with subsequent generations. All we know is that in 1904 he was dumped off at a local hotel in Winfield Tennessee and left to die by his coworkers. Hospitals in the region were a thing of the future, and hotels were little more than roadside rooming houses where a meal, a bath, and a bed could be procured for a few pennies, hardly a place for a severely injured man to find the lifesaving help he needed.

When his lumberjacks dropped him off he was left in the care of a hearty, determined young woman named Charity, who was not about to let him die on her watch. She cared for him and – against all odds – ultimately nursed him back to health. Eventually he returned to the lumbering operations and moved around northern Tennessee and southern Kentucky with the Stearns interests. Charity remained at his side as his bride, as they were married in the Spring of 1905.

Charity’s Dad was an itinerant preacher, a circuit rider as they were called. He would travel by horseback from valley to valley, holler to holler, planting churches and meeting with the congregations. Our family fondly remembers him as Grandpa Joel, though even the eldest of the elder statesmen in our family have no personal memories of him. The locals remember him as Big Joel, a brick house of a man with a larger-than-life personality.

Most of the churches the Lord led him to plant are still going strong, and even though as of a couple days ago he’s been gone 85 years his reputation is still revered. Even though I’m from up north and never lived in Tennessee, I’m welcomed as family when I visit just because I’m one of his descendants, his great-great-grandson.

I’ve heard a lot of interesting stories about Grandpa Joel. One of the most memorable was that, at 87 years old, he planned his own funeral in great detail. Apparently he was so impressed by what he had planned that he decided he wanted to attend it himself before he passed, to see what it would be like.

He wanted to know what people would say about him, how he’d be remembered. His plan was to be laid out in an open casket, dressed in his best Sunday-go-to-meeting suit, pretending to be dead as his planned event unfolded around him.

And so, he set the date for his funeral. Wednesday, March 20th, 1940. He made announcements to all his congregations and let all his family and friends know where the great event would take place. He wanted to be sure as many as possible could attend, and what a celebration it was going to be!

Folks from all over the area gathered to see this great spectacle, to hear what others were going to say about a man who had become quite a legend through the entire area. And many planned to pay tribute to their old preacher, their friend, their kin. Never before had they heard of a funeral being held for someone yet living, so even the curious who didn't know Big Joel turned out to see what all the hullabaloo was about.

Most of the particulars of this blessed event have been lost to time and family lore. I’m sure there has been a lot of exaggeration, but to hear it told there were nigh unto 500 people gathered, quite a feat in an area where the towns are still little more than whistlestop villages in the winding valleys surrounding Scott County Tennessee. I remember my Grandpa talking about how when he was a kid, going into the town of Jellico was going “into the city.” When I visited Jellico some 30 years ago it had grown to a whopping 2,400 people, up from about 1,200 when Grandpa was young, but down from its peak of about 2,700.

In any case, of such importance was the big event that there were still people who remembered it and shared their stories in the mid-70s when Grandpa and a couple of his siblings returned with my parents for their first visit in nearly 30 years. Of course the stories were varied, the memories having been embellished, expounded upon, exaggerated, and sometimes dimmed by the passage of both time and the people who would have remembered best. Nobody could be quite certain what had actually happened, how big the crowds were, what was said, or in some cases who was actually there. The only thing certain was that it was an event that stirred things up in the area for a long time.

You see, for all his planning, for all his inviting, for all his wishes to hear what others were going to say about him, there was one key element that Grandpa Joel couldn’t control. And because he couldn’t control it I’m sure he startled himself, and no doubt shocked just about everyone who had come to attend his mock funeral. But he didn’t surprise God.

Grandpa Joel had set the date for this grand event at March 20th, but on the 19th he passed rather unexpectedly. Although I suppose at 87 years of age it may not have been as much of a surprise as we’re given to believe.

And so, on March 20th his funeral was held as planned, with a much larger crowd in attendance than he may have otherwise been able to gather. Not a mock funeral like he had planned, but his actual funeral. He was there, but only in body. And his body was laid out in his open casket dressed in his Sunday finery, just as he had planned.

Today if you visit his grave you’ll see that his stone is engraved with the March 20th date, but if you take a look at his death certificate you’ll see the actual date of his death, March 19th, 1940.

Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction, and things happen nobody would believe if they hadn’t been there. As Grandpa Joel may have said a time or two, God sure has a sense of humor, and His timing is perfect.