Dolly Parton never pretended she had outgrown Locust Ridge. Even after Broadway, Hollywood, Dollywood and a Fifth Avenue apartment, she talked about the two-room cabin, the coat of many colors, and the church songs her family sang when there was little else to offer. So it was no surprise that, when she thought about her own funeral more than a decade before she died, she did not choose one of her own hits.
She chose an old gospel hymn: Albert E. Brumley’s “If We Never Meet Again (This Side of Heaven).”
Parton died on August 25, 2026, at 80, after a brief battle with cancer. At her request the service was small and private. She was laid to rest on August 28 at Woodlawn Memorial Park and Mausoleum in Nashville, beside Carl Dean, her husband of nearly sixty years, who died in March 2025. Family asked fans to skip flowers and give instead to the Imagination Library, the children’s book program she built in honor of her father, who never learned to read. The send-off was as unshowy as a life in rhinestones could be. The song she wanted sung was the same.
Her father’s favorite
In a 2014 interview with Entertainment Weekly, Parton was asked what music she would want at her funeral. She knew what the world would play. “I’m sure they’ll be playing ‘I Will Always Love You’ when I die, just like they did with Whitney Houston,” she said. Hearing her own song as Houston’s coffin was carried had made the death suddenly real. She did not reject that. She simply named something older and closer.
“There’s a song called ‘If We Never Meet Again.’ It’s an old country-gospel church song that talks about if we never meet again this side of heaven, I will meet you on that beautiful shore. ‘Where the charming roses bloom forever and where separations come no more.’ That was my daddy’s favorite. We did sing it at his funeral, and I would like it to be sung at mine.”
Lee Parton died in 2000. The hymn had already lived in Dolly’s work for decades. In the 1974 song “Sacred Memories,” she folded the same lines into a memory of getting saved and baptized: the congregation singing her favorite song about roses that never fade and partings that finally end.
The lyric is not complicated. Life’s journey ends. People part in sorrow. Benedictions sometimes make the pain sharper. Heaven is the place where the river of life runs and storm clouds do not gather. “God be with you till we meet again.” It is a farewell that refuses to treat death as the last word. After Carl Dean’s death, Parton told interviewers she expected to see him again. The hymn she picked for herself was the same hope she had already used for her father and her husband.
A cotton-field songwriter who would not stay in one church
Albert Edward Brumley wrote the song in 1945. He was born October 29, 1905, near Spiro, in what was then Oklahoma’s Choctaw Nation, to sharecroppers. He picked cotton, studied shape-note singing at the Hartford Musical Institute in small-town Arkansas, taught singing schools in the Ozarks, and settled in Powell, Missouri. The Smithsonian later called him the greatest white gospel songwriter before World War II. He wrote more than 600 songs, among them “I’ll Fly Away,” “I’ll Meet You in the Morning,” “Turn Your Radio On” and “Rank Strangers.” Elvis Presley recorded “If We Never Meet Again.” So did Johnny Cash, the Chuck Wagon Gang and Brown’s Ferry Four.
The racial label never held.
“I’ll Fly Away,” written in 1929 while Brumley hummed in a cotton field, became a standard for Black gospel groups: the Five Blind Boys of Mississippi, the Five Blind Boys of Alabama, the Pilgrim Jubilees, the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir. Aretha Franklin recorded it as a duet with Jesse Jackson. Lines about flying away “like a bird from prison bars” traveled from white Southern hymnals into the civil-rights era and stayed there. The hymn Parton chose for her own service has been recorded even farther from Powell, Missouri — including by the All for Christ Singers, who mix American gospel with indigenous music from Zimbabwe. Brumley, who learned his trade in a little Arkansas singing school, would have been startled. Parton would have shouted amen.
That is the first crossing the funeral song makes visible: race. Southern gospel and Black gospel were marketed as separate worlds. Congregations often were. The songs were not. A poor white Oklahoman wrote words Black churches claimed as their own. Decades later a white Appalachian superstar chose one of those hymns for the last service of her life.
From the mountains to everywhere
The second crossing is region. Parton left Sevier County for Nashville the day after high school, met Carl Dean outside a laundromat, and spent the rest of her life proving that “country” did not have to mean small. She took mountain stories to the Grand Ole Opry, then to movie sets and Times Square. She never sanded off the accent or the rhinestones. She also never treated the mountains as a museum. Her music was portable. Whitney Houston, raised in the Black church in New Jersey, turned “I Will Always Love You” into a global standard. When Houston won the Grammy for that recording, Parton handed her the award. Parton later shared a stage at Dollywood with Ladysmith Black Mambazo. She sang “I’ll Fly Away” in concert and watched rooms of every background rise.
American popular music has always worked this way when it is at its best. Thomas Dorsey’s “Take My Hand, Precious Lord” was sung at Martin Luther King Jr.’s funeral; Mahalia Jackson and Elvis Presley both recorded it. At Aretha Franklin’s funeral, Gladys Knight sang Paul Simon’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” a song indebted to the Swan Silvertones’ “Oh Mary Don’t You Weep.” Ray Charles carried Black gospel onto the pop charts, then took Don Gibson’s country weeper “I Can’t Stop Loving You” and made it his. The Opry welcomed him. Calling any of this “appropriation” misses the point the music itself keeps making: the good songs refuse to stay home.
Parton belonged in that company. She did not become universal by erasing Appalachia. She became universal by treating Appalachia as something the rest of the country could recognize if she sang it clearly enough.
Faith without a fence
The third crossing is religion. Parton grew up Pentecostal on one side of the family and Baptist on the other. Her grandfather preached. She learned Bible stories early and never discarded them. She also refused to become a mascot for any denomination. “I’m not that religious, but I’m very, very spiritual,” she wrote later in life. She talked to God as a friend. She recorded gospel albums and hymns — “How Great Thou Art,” “Amazing Grace,” “He’s Alive,” “The Seeker” — and she also wrote about doubt, desire and the messy middle. She called herself a “vanilla sinner”: too bad to be good, too good to be bad. She would not cram belief down anyone’s throat. She would not pretend she did not have any.
That combination is why the Brumley hymn fits her better than a self-written anthem would have. It is church music without a party line. It assumes heaven and reunion. It does not argue doctrine. It can be sung by a Pentecostal preacher’s granddaughter, a Black gospel quartet, a Zimbabwean choir and a Nashville crowd that came for “Jolene.” Parton spent a career standing in that overlap. She built chapels she jokingly called “Bapticostal.” She asked people to believe in something larger than themselves, whether they named it God, nature or “higher wisdom.” The funeral song is that invitation in four verses.
What the choice still says
The country that mourned her in late August 2026 is more sorted than the one that first heard “Coat of Many Colors.” People share fewer songs, fewer churches, fewer rooms. The grief for Parton cut across those lines anyway. That was not an accident of celebrity. It was the result of a lifetime spent refusing to pick only one audience.
She could have asked for “I Will Always Love You” and left it there. She expected that song to be played, and it almost certainly was, somewhere in the days after she died. What she actually requested was a 1945 gospel number written by a cotton-field composer from Indian Territory, loved by her barely literate father, already sung at his grave, already claimed by Black churches and country quartets and, later, by singers an ocean away.
That is the reflection the hymn offers. Not that America has no divisions. It does. That some American music — and some American artists — never accepted those divisions as the last word. Parton tried to bring people into the same room without demanding they become the same person. The song she wanted at the end does the same work in miniature: a promise that separation is not the whole story, sung in a language more than one kind of believer already knew.
If we never meet again this side of heaven, the hymn says, there is another shore. Dolly Parton spent fifty years acting as if that shore, and this one, belonged to more people than the maps suggested. The funeral song was not a surprise. It was the last verse of the same idea.
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