A story not of evil, but of goodness.

My paternal grandmother died when my father, the oldest of eight children, was ten years old. They lived on a small farm in a very rural area. The only church was a small Lutheran church which served the farming families in the area without regard for denomination. My grandmother had been married before and had left her husband to marry my grandfather, a scandalous thing at the turn of the century before WWI. The "ladies" of the congregation went to the minister and opposed him preaching my grandmother's funeral, using the excuse that she had never been properly baptized. The minister said that he could not, in Christian faith, refuse to preach a funeral for anyone. The "ladies" were very upset and stated talking about leaving the church, having him removed as pastor, etc. The pastor reached a compromise by agreeing to preach her funeral in front of the church but not inside. They day of the funeral was a bright, sunny Kentucky day, not a cloud in the sky. As the buckboard wagon pulled up in front of the church with my grandmother's casket, a light shower of rain fell and the drops could clearly be seen on the pine boards of the casket. Nothing else was wet, not the people standing outside, the mules pulling the buckboard, or the dirt around the front door of the church. The preacher looked at the church "ladies" and said that since the good Lord had seen fit to baptize my grandmother, he was going to preach her funeral inside the church, and anyone having a problem with what he and God were doing was welcome to leave and not come back. My father said that the "ladies" never uttered a word as their husbands carried my grandmother's casket inside the church.