When a goalie dies ... call the Elvis Priest.

We all know what goes on in a funeral parlour.
People talk in hushed tones. It's quiet.

Sometimes you hear a person yell out.
You can only imagine that the pain of their loss is intolerable.
This type of noise seems out of place and non-respectful at first, but then you remember where you are.

Friends see a notice in their newspaper or get a call from a friend. They arrive but aren't really invited. Everyone is polite, even courteous to each other. They take direction and line up to pay their respects without complaint.

They wait their turn to talk to and share a moment with the key person. The key person is the person who's closest to the deceased - sometimes it's not the person who you'd expect it to be.

Sometimes guests say the wrong thing to the key person. Their intentions are sincere. People feel they have to say something and often they blurt out the wrong thing.

I think it's where the term "foot-in-mouth" came from.

Guests often say "Let me know if I can do anything" to grieving family members. They try to say something to ease the pain and be helpful. Just once I would like to hear the response ... "well, yes, thanks .... could you paint my bedroom and haul away the old fridge in the basement?"

I just attended a friend's funeral. He was a hockey goalie.
A little over-weight, a little crazy like most goalies and only 50. He was a happy person with an off-beat sense of humour -- everyone fell victim to his punch lines. If you went to the bar after the game, you'd want to sit close to him.

All his hockey buddies arrived for the service at the funeral home. My hockey friends always look strange to me in street clothes - especially suits and ties. The vulgar greetings that are usually exchanged between us in the dressing room were replaced with civility - also a little strange.

When we were finally called to the chapel nobody could have been ready for what would come next.

The minister, beautifully turned out in full religious vestments appeared at the doorway leading the way for the casket and the family.

However, he also had a huge jet-black Elvis Presley-style pompadour hair-do (think Jim Carrey's hair in Ace Ventura - times two) and bushy, black muttonchops sideburns to help him properly channel "The King".

Before any spoken words, he offered an Elvis ballad.
I am trying to remember which one - I wasn't an Elvis fan.
The hockey buddies looked at each other all around the room - there was lots of shoulder shrugging.

In his booming Shakespearian voice, the Elvis Priest explained that he and our buddy had met during the summer, at, where else, the annual "Elvis Weekend" in Midland Ontario.

After introducing each family member, including the deceased's former wife to the assembled friends,
he invited them to join him around the casket to sing another Elvis tune.

He didn't need any musical instruments.

I had been an altar boy when I was a kid.
I had attended formal church funerals once or twice a week for 6 years but I had never seen anything like this. More very loud singing, hand clapping, and words of praise to the Lord and the King followed. Gratefully, he didn't try Viva Las Vegas but that may have been the only one he missed.

Fortunately, there didn't seem to be any other people in the funeral home building. The "noise" in our chapel would have annoyed the most forgiving mourners.

When the service was over and one last Elvis tune was delivered and the mourners were making their way to the exits, it occurred to me that the Elvis Priest performed a very helpful service to the family.


For the past hour, he had screamed some stuff about God and our "ultimate reward", turned some Elvis chart-toppers into hymns, told some funny stories about our friend and, most of all, distracted his relatives and his friends for an hour and took their pain away.