The golf ball

To totaly appriciate the wonder of this story you must first understand two things about my husband Fred. Firstly, he does not play golf. Apart from mini-golf which we do sometimes on vacation.
The second thing which you need to know is that he doesn't wear suits. He has couple, but very rarely wears them.

Last April my friend Deb's father passed way from pancriotic cancer. While helping her mother perpair funeral arrangments she nearly forgot about pall bearers untill the last minute. She scrambled to come up with six men who would be able to carry her father's casket. She wound up asking Fred who accepted with honor.

The morning of the funeral, Fred decided since he was pall bearer, he should really wear a suit, complete with jacket and tie. He put the jacket on and felt something in the pocket. We were both suprised when he pulled out a golf ball.
Neither of us could imagine where that had come from, nor could we even remember the last time he'd wore that suit.

At the funeral the priest was going on about how much George loved a good game of golf. I smiled to myself because a few weeks earlier Deb was joking that when her dad got to Heaven he would probably get St. Peter into a few rounds of golf before heading through the pearly gates!

Suddenly, it hit me! After the service I rushed up to Deb and her mom. "He's playing golf," I said. "Right now, with St. Peter and he hit one so hard it landed in Fred's pocket!"

I believe this was George Butwitt's mesage to his grieving wife and daughter, "I'm fine and I'm playing golf!"