Eavesdropping on Our Own Eulogy
Atlanta, GA
January 6, 2023
It is a learned skill to force yourself to articulate your life, your present world or your possibilities for the future.
– David Whyte
Today is the Feast of the Epiphany. With any luck, we’ll have one. So let’s hop on our horses, grab the gifts, and seek our star.
This week we flipped the calendar, and again passed the annual portal. We know not how many thresholds remain. But after a weird year and reflective morning, we glance ahead to the day our last one is crossed.
Thru an assortment of shadows and shades, the mist rises, and a veil falls. In the distance, a dim light beckons. We hope it’s a halo, but fear it’s fire. A hand waves, and calls us toward it.
But from where we’ve walked, a solemn rumbling compels us to pause. Behind us, in the world we’ve left, a crowd’s gathered. We look over our shoulder to catch a glimpse, and are startled by what we see.
The faces are familiar, tho’ most seemed much younger the last time we saw them. Dressed in black, the men shake hands, the women hug, and all of them wish they’d met under different circumstances.
The mood is somber, not least to the corpse in the casket. We recognize his face too. My entire life, we met in the mirror. But now the eyes that peered back each morning are sealed shut for all time.
Condolers periodically pass the body, pay respects, and lament the loss. The decedent hates to see so many people sad, but is relieved they aren’t too happy.
As flowers are laid and prayers provided, he wonders what he could’ve done while he was alive to entice a greater gathering. What untried triumphs or foregone failures might’ve put more lines in his obituary, more people in the pews, or extra tears in their eyes?
Most mourners agreed the departed was a good guy who meant well and did his best. But the deceased has his doubts. He leans in to listen, to see how widely they were shared.
Testing the patience of his ethereal escort or infernal host, he decides to linger in limbo, and eavesdrop on the eulogy. Tho’ these homilies of posthumous praise are formally forbidden at Catholic funerals, under the reign of the current “pope“, each diocese tends to do what it wants…so long as it isn’t overly reverent or spoken in Latin.
As the congregants took their pews, the funeral began. After the readings, the priest proceeded to the lectern, crossed himself, and began to speak:
“To invert Socrates, an un-lived life isn’t worth examining.
“After all, everyone should take some chances, bear some risk, and bask in the blessings of at least a few redeeming faults.
“Unfortunately, today there’s little ill we can speak of our dear dead. Like all of us, he occasionally courted trouble. But the union was rarely fully consummated. His caution, comfort, and desire to please preclude our opportunity to praise him with faint damns.
“The man we remember was usually good company. His was conversant in many topics, pleasant at dinner parties, an agreeable employee, and an admirable boss. He preferred to stay out of other people’s way, even if he couldn’t always get out of his own.”
Uh oh. Is this the priest that heard my deathbed confession? Where’s this headed? Is this a eulogy or a roast? Anxiety rose in our itinerant soul, which leaned in, and continued to listen.
“Our dear departed made fine friends, had a fantastic family, and was happy most of his life. Or so it seemed.
“Much as most people liked him, he hardly knew himself. Throughout his days, he dodged that introduction.
“All of us suffer some degree of imposter syndrome. But rarely was a case so unnecessary, or acute. The deceased bore self-doubt so deep it likely struck oil. Yet were he more confident in his capabilities, he could’ve mined gold.
“On several subjects he had good knowledge and strong opinions, many of which lay fallow under a topsoil of fear. He was always afraid of giving offense. He ruffled few feathers, and preferred placid tea in every pot. He could go with the flow, but steered clear of even the softest shoals.
“He hated conflict, sought to avoid it, and usually did. It was among the sustained skills he cultivated in life.
“But ignoring disputes rarely makes their causes go away. It merely diverts them to more destructive channels. Like toxic mold covered by cosmetic paint, stifled strife may be invisible. Yet it spreads internally, where damage grows undetected and more extensive.
“Our departed knew what he liked, because he’d always liked it. But he rarely discovered what else he liked, because he often opted not to look. He tended to avoid adventure, relax in his ruts, and be frequently afflicted by the curse of contentment.
“It’s assumed that interest prompts action, which is true. But it works the other way too. Activity cultivates exuberance. Doing nothing diminishes enthusiasm for everything. Being curious, inquisitive, and engaged sows the seeds of their own reward, even (or especially) if we have no idea the crop it will yield.
“We recall today someone whose career was successful, but largely unfulfilled…and unfulfilling. Gandhi described happiness as when what we think is in harmony with what we do. For the man we remember today, those notes were often out of tune.
“He followed the prescribed path for people his age. He got a degree from a fine institution, was offered a good job, went to graduate school, and settled into a series of respectable positions at esteemed corporations.
“At one of them, a supervisor told him her initial impression was his work was good, but his passion was lacking. She later decided his stoic veneer of detached indifference reflected a calm personality rather than a dearth of desire.
“But she was right the first time.
“As with most people, he worked to get paid. Employment filled a financial need, the way a daily diet of warm water and skinless chicken satisfies a physiological one. What his employer did or whether his position had purpose was incidental. He played his part and followed his routine.
“He always assumed his true passions weren’t practical, so shouldn’t be pursued. But what were his passions? What did he truly enjoy? And why would he spend three decades doing things that made him miserable, till the tension disturbed his sleep and poked his stomach with pangs in its pit?”
The pastor paused, letting the questions hang like bitter fruit from an rancid vine. We’re tempted to pick it, but reluctant to sample something that might make us sick.
That was always the case with the lost soul this “eulogy” was about. He was never quite sure what he really wanted to do, so he did what others thought he should do, or what he assumed he was supposed to.
Or he avoided the question by putting it aside. Each step on his career treadmill was like Waffle House after midnight. He didn’t go there; he ended up there.
He believed God created us for a particular purpose. But he never understood why He’d created him.
As he listened from the other side of the celestial two-way mirror, his head fell into his hands. He knew his season had passed, and berated himself for missing his harvest.
In the distance, as the priest prepared to resume his sermon, the supernatural valet continued to wave. After a lifetime of unwarranted caution, the shaken star of this candid eulogy took a chance. He put up a finger, and asked his guide to wait.
His mortal book having been written and bound, he braced himself for rest of the review.
The pugnacious priest continued to punch…
“In many ways the man we remember today was naturally gifted. But he deprived the world of much of his talent by leaving it untapped. Too often he squandered his innate abilities, or was frustrated he was unable to recognize them.
“But despite his reticence, this devout Catholic had reasons to rejoice. Baptized as a baby, he was confirmed as an adult. He loved the Church, and received solace from her. Like many of us, he was faithful. Like all of us, he was flawed. Among his regrets was not doing more to instill the Faith in his family.
“He preferred themes to details. As one who could enjoy the forest without being distracted by the trees, he focused his affection on what mattered most. Before he died, he reproached himself for not doing it enough.
“But he felt redeemed by his faith, and his wife. If he was uncertain about himself, he had no doubt about her. She was the best decision he ever made, and her choice to reciprocate was the greatest blessing he ever received. Yet he never loved her as she deserved.
“He is survived by this wonderful woman and the two marvelous sons with whom she graced his life. He loved them dearly, but wished he’d proved it more often. His love was genuine, but could seem fleeting, and was rarely tough. His allergy to acrimony inclined him to being liked more than respected. With his sons, he too often acted more as a friend than a father.
“Like many of us, he was too late realizing his regrets. He wished he had more years to live, more time to rectify mistakes, and to savor the essence of what it is to be alive. But that’s something we must do so from this side of the grass, before the hole is dug and the sod hits our face.
“Lao Tsu said that if you’re depressed, you’re living in the past; if you’re anxious, you’re living in the future; but if you’re at peace, you’re living in the present. Too few of us live in the moment. Fewer appreciate it, or make the most of it. The man we honor today didn’t do so enough, and will never do so again.
“Were he with us, he would assuredly advise us to savor every minute. He didn’t realize how few he had left. Nor do we. But there’s no doubt however many we’re given, that when they’re gone, we’ll never get them back.
With a tap on our shoulder, we left our funeral, and followed the light.
JD
