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Dad's memorial service
Oct. 6th, 2012 10:06 pmThe family gathered at my sister Betsy's house last night. We met at my mom's for brunch this morning, and then we had the memorial service at Mom and Dad's church this afternoon. Fiona and Delia read one of the scripture readings (Psalm 100). Each of my siblings and I did a remembrance, about a couple minutes for each of us. They were very heartfelt and personal, and I think altogether they did a good job of giving a many faceted portrait of my Dad. I went last. We got a little emotional, of course, some more than others, but we got through them okay. Two of my nephews did special music, "Morning is Broken," which was one of my Dad's favorite hymns, and my sister Betsy put together a nice montage of photographs, with one of Dad's favorite Peter, Paul and Mary songs that was played at the end.
Here was my eulogy:
"Writing a remembrance for someone as beloved as our Dad is both an honor and a struggle. Even though I have some experience as a professional writer, writers’ block tends to crop up, I know from long experience, when I want the words to be perfect. I want my words here today to move you, to rouse in you as fierce an admiration and respect for Dad as my own. I want you to see the love that he poured out throughout his life for his dear wife, our Mom, for us, his children and grandchildren, for all the friends that he made throughout the world. And even for random strangers who wandered within his orbit and who sometimes must have ended up wondering, when hit by his passionate enthusiasms, what on earth had hit them. But what use can words be in the face of such grief, even for a life as long and as well-lived as his, one full of satisfying work in God's Kingdom, one that ended in such bitter sweet perfection? Think of it: in the home of Richard Serrin, one of his best friends, at the end of a wonderful vacation celebrating sixty years of marriage. After a long day rambling through a city that he loved, admiring the art, having coffee and conversation at the cafe, then coming back for a last gin and tonic and lying down for a nap before dinner. And finally slipping away quietly and easily in his sleep.
It's hopeless, I tell you: the eloquence I long for to perfectly capture and honor Dad's life and memory remains maddeningly out of reach. But that very imperfection, paradoxically, honors my father, too, for throughout his life, he was always quick to say that he wasn't perfect. I have rarely met a man who was so disarmingly willing to admit his own faults and failings. He gave us a remarkable example by sometimes saying with refreshing candor, "I am sorry. I made a mistake, and in doing so, I hurt you. I'll do better next time."
He was also exceptionally tender-hearted. Although sometimes he tussled with Mom as all married couples do, something he described as having 'lots of fireworks in their relationship,' he clearly adored her, and he spoke openly of how fortunate he was that she had agreed to marry him. Unlike many men of his generation, he never hesitated to tell someone that he cared for them, even that he loved them.
Another hallmark of his character was his optimism. Last December, my Dad sat down for an interview with a local reporter, John Gross, and when asked what he thought was the key to success and happiness, Dad said:
I’m a great believer that what we think and how we respond is the most important thing that we can do. Victor Frankl said, “Man’s greatest freedom is to choose his response in any given situation.” …. I think that attitude is primarily the most important thing, because attitude is something that you can change....I’ve believed that you can think positively or negatively but I think all my life for the most part I’ve been a blooming optimist.
Note what he says about attitude being something that you can change. I think his conviction that one’s approach to life could be shaped by will led him to a lifelong curiosity about what made people tick. And so he continually sought out people whom he admired and asked them how they had achieved success, both in their careers and in their families. As he gained in age and experience, in turn he served as a mentor to others. The first thing I ever wrote with the intention of showing it to others was an unrhymed poem, composed at the age of nine. I knew instinctively that the proper first person to see it had to be Dad. And I was right. I no longer have the poem, or his comments, but I do remember that his feedback was gently honest yet encouraging, and it was on the basis of that very first uncertain poem that he told me that I really could be a writer if I wanted to be.
That’s what my dad believed, that you can be whatever you want to be. HE was what he wanted to be: happy, curious, adventurous, hard-working and loving. There is a picture that hangs on the living room wall in my parents’ home, which my brother Chet commissioned from Dad’s high school friend Richard Serrin as a gift for Mom and Dad a few years ago. It shows Mom and Dad with all their children and grandchildren in the Piazzi Signoria in Florence, Italy, the city where he died, gathered together for an ersatz vacation that never was. For those of us lucky enough to know him, it’s a fitting way to remember him: surrounded by the people he loved, on one of his spectacular world adventures born of imagination."
* * *
After the service, the family gathered at my sister Cindy's tonight. We had relatives come in from out of town, and it was truly wonderful to see them. I think the day all went really well.
We're still waiting for my Dad's ashes to be returned from Italy.
Here was my eulogy:
"Writing a remembrance for someone as beloved as our Dad is both an honor and a struggle. Even though I have some experience as a professional writer, writers’ block tends to crop up, I know from long experience, when I want the words to be perfect. I want my words here today to move you, to rouse in you as fierce an admiration and respect for Dad as my own. I want you to see the love that he poured out throughout his life for his dear wife, our Mom, for us, his children and grandchildren, for all the friends that he made throughout the world. And even for random strangers who wandered within his orbit and who sometimes must have ended up wondering, when hit by his passionate enthusiasms, what on earth had hit them. But what use can words be in the face of such grief, even for a life as long and as well-lived as his, one full of satisfying work in God's Kingdom, one that ended in such bitter sweet perfection? Think of it: in the home of Richard Serrin, one of his best friends, at the end of a wonderful vacation celebrating sixty years of marriage. After a long day rambling through a city that he loved, admiring the art, having coffee and conversation at the cafe, then coming back for a last gin and tonic and lying down for a nap before dinner. And finally slipping away quietly and easily in his sleep.
It's hopeless, I tell you: the eloquence I long for to perfectly capture and honor Dad's life and memory remains maddeningly out of reach. But that very imperfection, paradoxically, honors my father, too, for throughout his life, he was always quick to say that he wasn't perfect. I have rarely met a man who was so disarmingly willing to admit his own faults and failings. He gave us a remarkable example by sometimes saying with refreshing candor, "I am sorry. I made a mistake, and in doing so, I hurt you. I'll do better next time."
He was also exceptionally tender-hearted. Although sometimes he tussled with Mom as all married couples do, something he described as having 'lots of fireworks in their relationship,' he clearly adored her, and he spoke openly of how fortunate he was that she had agreed to marry him. Unlike many men of his generation, he never hesitated to tell someone that he cared for them, even that he loved them.
Another hallmark of his character was his optimism. Last December, my Dad sat down for an interview with a local reporter, John Gross, and when asked what he thought was the key to success and happiness, Dad said:
I’m a great believer that what we think and how we respond is the most important thing that we can do. Victor Frankl said, “Man’s greatest freedom is to choose his response in any given situation.” …. I think that attitude is primarily the most important thing, because attitude is something that you can change....I’ve believed that you can think positively or negatively but I think all my life for the most part I’ve been a blooming optimist.
Note what he says about attitude being something that you can change. I think his conviction that one’s approach to life could be shaped by will led him to a lifelong curiosity about what made people tick. And so he continually sought out people whom he admired and asked them how they had achieved success, both in their careers and in their families. As he gained in age and experience, in turn he served as a mentor to others. The first thing I ever wrote with the intention of showing it to others was an unrhymed poem, composed at the age of nine. I knew instinctively that the proper first person to see it had to be Dad. And I was right. I no longer have the poem, or his comments, but I do remember that his feedback was gently honest yet encouraging, and it was on the basis of that very first uncertain poem that he told me that I really could be a writer if I wanted to be.
That’s what my dad believed, that you can be whatever you want to be. HE was what he wanted to be: happy, curious, adventurous, hard-working and loving. There is a picture that hangs on the living room wall in my parents’ home, which my brother Chet commissioned from Dad’s high school friend Richard Serrin as a gift for Mom and Dad a few years ago. It shows Mom and Dad with all their children and grandchildren in the Piazzi Signoria in Florence, Italy, the city where he died, gathered together for an ersatz vacation that never was. For those of us lucky enough to know him, it’s a fitting way to remember him: surrounded by the people he loved, on one of his spectacular world adventures born of imagination."
* * *
After the service, the family gathered at my sister Cindy's tonight. We had relatives come in from out of town, and it was truly wonderful to see them. I think the day all went really well.
We're still waiting for my Dad's ashes to be returned from Italy.
