God Bless the NFL
It started out as a disposable relationship. When I needed him for a good time, he was there six months out of the year. Weekends, Monday nights and the occasional Thursday evening, we would meet with friends but seldom alone. The attraction had little to do with him. It was the crowd he could assemble, with chips and beer, laughter and high spirits.
Those were my early years with the NFL.
My friend, Lori, gave me a placard that reads, "We interrupt this marriage to bring you football season!" I resented football. Always, somewhere on cable or satellite or radio there was an NFL game that interfered with my husband's diaper duty or ability to converse in complete sentences.
"Yes, I understand your frustrations with dealing with the kids all day ... Whoa! Did you see that? They got a safety! They got a safety!"
Many weekends have been spent rooting for or commiserating with the New Orleans Saints. My Aunt Ora got us hooked as babies. We've run the gamut from Archie Manning to Bobby Hebert and Morten Andersen and every player who has ever given die-hard fans a splinter of hope that some day the Saints would make it to the Super Bowl.
Watching the NFL games lost its luster because life got hectic. I resented the NFL because it seemed like a huge waste of time to sit glued to the tube for countless hours watching grown men run around in pursuit of that insufferable ball.
Times have changed. My son discovered the male bonding experience that is the NFL. He served as commissioner of his own Fantasy Football League. He can run stats like a bookie.
Ask him about any player today or even some of the retired guys and I guarantee you, he'll know more than is sensible. Through this football junkie kid of mine, I came to know the game in a different light.
When my mom found out she had cancer and as my dad's health took a hard turn for the worse, football season started. Sam delved into team rosters and schedules. He watched games to see how his Fantasy players performed. When the Saints played well, he rejoiced in high fives with his dad and called Aunt Ora as the Saints continued to beat the odds.
Meanwhile, the ups and downs of ailing family members threaded through the season. In hospital rooms and lobbies, John Madden's familiar voice comforted like that of an old friend.
Surprisingly, I found myself more than ready to sit and watch. The NFL and I, we go way back.For once, football felt right. In spite of worry and stress, there was laughter and gladness. Most amazingly, there was hope. The Saints had made the playoffs.
When those NFL players suit up and take the field, I imagine they focus on the job at hand. They have work to do. They face injury and frustration, pain and disappointment. A lot of people depend on them to bring home victory, to take us away from our troubles for awhile.
What I have discovered about my old flame, the NFL, is that in each team's pursuit of a Super Bowl ring, the rest of us find escape and a welcome respite from life's hardships.
It feels fantastic to see your team's running back catch a Hail Mary pass in the end zone.
It feels great to see the underdog win.
It feels downright euphoric to see your 79-year-old aunt jump to her feet and shout with unbridled pleasure while your son does the same, a pair of football nuts gone mad every time the Saints score.
While the Saints marched into their second playoff game, it felt like miracles are possible. And I know they are. Because now I can say that I truly enjoy watching football.
God bless the NFL.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Sail Away with Captain Dad
Sail Away with Captain Dad
Our daughter beseeched us to entertain her.
"Can we do something, like play cards? Watch a movie? Go somewhere?"
My husband and I lay motionless atop the bed covers. It was Saturday. It was cold out, the skies were gray and it seemed obvious to us that the only reasonable form of entertainment would be to leisurely watch the back of our eyelids.
She persisted.
"Come on. I'm bored. Get up. We need to do something."
Somebody groaned. The dogs whimpered. They already were piled high on the bed with us in various states of unconscious indulgence.
"I tell you what," her dad offered. "Let's play 'Boat to Boat.' "
She stomped off, disgusted, while we erupted in unbridled glee and recalled the birth of the best game ever invented.
Her dad concocted "Boat to Boat" many years ago when our then 3-year-old daughter insisted that nothing would do but an activity that involved Dad. He is clever in the ways of creative play.
He taught her to hammer nails into a block of wood. She'd say she was building a fort, a doghouse, maybe a barn. He gave her a rod and reel and showed her how to cast a rubber worm. This worked great until the line got caught.
"Boat to Boat" came about one of those lazy Saturdays when the week at work had left him ready for nothing but some serious R & R. He stretched out for a nap. Katie arrived, wide-eyed and eager to play.
"Whatcha doin', Dad?"
"Oh, I was just thinking. Thinking about a nice long nap."
"Dad, I wanna play. Let's play something. Whatcha wanna play?"
"I have an idea," he said sleepily. "How about we pretend this bed is a boat."
She pondered the proposition.
"OK, we're in a boat. Now what?"
"Uh, I think we'll need some stuff for our boat. How about you go get us some stuff?"
She squealed delightedly and he retreated to his quarters. She had an open invitation to drag everything she owned from her room to ours. Her dimples popped like those of a game show host, and she ran off to raid her toy box.
Hours later, I discovered them charting the depths of some faraway ocean. He had donned an authentic captain's hat. They were taking drags on huge plastic cigars and resembled a pair of mobsters who had just looted Toys R Us.
"What in the world happened in here?"
Capt. Dad replied with incredulous surprise.
"Well, we've been playing 'Boat to Boat,' of course," he informed me.
"Yeah, we call dis 'Boat to Boat,' Mommy. It's wots and wots of fun." The first mate snuggled up to the captain.
"And who is going to swab the deck, I mean, clean up this mess?"
Just like that, they both fell asleep, oblivious to everything except the soothing sensation of their seaworthy vessel rocking atop the deep water of some calm and gentle sea. It was the first of many "Boat to Boat" adventures where Capt. Dad always seemed to sail into the Bay of Lost Consciousness.
On that more recent Saturday, we discovered that "Boat to Boat" has since lost its appeal with the first mate. The captain now sails with a crew of poodles. Sometimes, the call of open water fills me with a serious need to join them. When they've settled into a satisfied slumber, I set the anchor, take a deep breath of salty air, and sail away, too. I agree with the captain. It's one of the best games he ever invented.
Our daughter beseeched us to entertain her.
"Can we do something, like play cards? Watch a movie? Go somewhere?"
My husband and I lay motionless atop the bed covers. It was Saturday. It was cold out, the skies were gray and it seemed obvious to us that the only reasonable form of entertainment would be to leisurely watch the back of our eyelids.
She persisted.
"Come on. I'm bored. Get up. We need to do something."
Somebody groaned. The dogs whimpered. They already were piled high on the bed with us in various states of unconscious indulgence.
"I tell you what," her dad offered. "Let's play 'Boat to Boat.' "
She stomped off, disgusted, while we erupted in unbridled glee and recalled the birth of the best game ever invented.
Her dad concocted "Boat to Boat" many years ago when our then 3-year-old daughter insisted that nothing would do but an activity that involved Dad. He is clever in the ways of creative play.
He taught her to hammer nails into a block of wood. She'd say she was building a fort, a doghouse, maybe a barn. He gave her a rod and reel and showed her how to cast a rubber worm. This worked great until the line got caught.
"Boat to Boat" came about one of those lazy Saturdays when the week at work had left him ready for nothing but some serious R & R. He stretched out for a nap. Katie arrived, wide-eyed and eager to play.
"Whatcha doin', Dad?"
"Oh, I was just thinking. Thinking about a nice long nap."
"Dad, I wanna play. Let's play something. Whatcha wanna play?"
"I have an idea," he said sleepily. "How about we pretend this bed is a boat."
She pondered the proposition.
"OK, we're in a boat. Now what?"
"Uh, I think we'll need some stuff for our boat. How about you go get us some stuff?"
She squealed delightedly and he retreated to his quarters. She had an open invitation to drag everything she owned from her room to ours. Her dimples popped like those of a game show host, and she ran off to raid her toy box.
Hours later, I discovered them charting the depths of some faraway ocean. He had donned an authentic captain's hat. They were taking drags on huge plastic cigars and resembled a pair of mobsters who had just looted Toys R Us.
"What in the world happened in here?"
Capt. Dad replied with incredulous surprise.
"Well, we've been playing 'Boat to Boat,' of course," he informed me.
"Yeah, we call dis 'Boat to Boat,' Mommy. It's wots and wots of fun." The first mate snuggled up to the captain.
"And who is going to swab the deck, I mean, clean up this mess?"
Just like that, they both fell asleep, oblivious to everything except the soothing sensation of their seaworthy vessel rocking atop the deep water of some calm and gentle sea. It was the first of many "Boat to Boat" adventures where Capt. Dad always seemed to sail into the Bay of Lost Consciousness.
On that more recent Saturday, we discovered that "Boat to Boat" has since lost its appeal with the first mate. The captain now sails with a crew of poodles. Sometimes, the call of open water fills me with a serious need to join them. When they've settled into a satisfied slumber, I set the anchor, take a deep breath of salty air, and sail away, too. I agree with the captain. It's one of the best games he ever invented.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Running Is for Those Who Can
Running Is for Those Who Can
I am not a runner. I know people who run, like Gerald Miller. He’s a longtime family friend and has likely logged more miles than the collective drivers of NASCAR. Gerald was featured in a NIKE ad. A photograph taken at the end of a marathon showed him peeling a pair of strategically placed Band-Aids from his sweaty chest. He was smiling.
Charles and Audrey Jackson run. They are fit and happy. They extol the virtues of running, and my eyes glaze over. I have soggy joints and a bad history with running. My physical education instructor in college can vouch for that.
When I was a freshman, I enrolled in Sissy Beacham’s Fitness and Conditioning class at what was then the Jefferson Davis Campus of Mississippi Gulf Coast Community College. My dad taught there. Sissy and he were good friends, so it was with great trepidation that I entered her class that first day, all lumpy and out of shape. I knew that my progress would be monitored with particular interest.
Our class included students of varying degrees of fitness. Some were runners. It was the era of Jane Fonda and videotaped aerobics. Many of the females showed up in cute pink tights and leg warmers, bouncy ponytails and lip-gloss. I dressed out in an old tee shirt and sweats. To my credit, I was eager to tone my muscles and burn fat, boost my metabolism and eat properly. As soon as Miss Beacham got out the calipers, though, my eagerness turned to flat out despondency.
She pinched the fat on our stomachs, our underarms, and our thighs. She measured our unhealthy indiscretions with a wicked device that revealed to the tenth of an inch the blubber we carried on our fleshy carcasses. She calculated our BMI, a ratio of weight to height used to determine your level of fitness. Oh, the inhumanity of it all! If I could have run fast, I would have bolted right then and there.
But I stuck with the program. We worked out on the stage of the gymnasium, following Miss Beacham’s lead while we lifted legs and crunched our abs and stifled moans of agony. I started walking every day, the one exercise that has never failed me. I lost weight and I felt better. There was a problem. To complete the course we had to run. Did I mention I am not a runner?
At the end of the semester, I took Miss Beacham’s timer with me, the kind you see sports officials use at the track. I had to run a mile, record the time it took me to complete it, and report to Miss Beacham.
Out on the lonely road, dodging cars and a serious need to collapse, I ran. I ran as fast as I could. I called up every incentive I could muster to will my legs onward. The Little Engine That Could cheered me on. The thrill of the fabled “runner’s high” taunted me. Finally, I rounded the corner for the home stretch and finished that fearsome mile with a final click of the timer.
Miss Beacham was sitting behind her desk when I delivered the news. I’d like to think someone had just told her the joke of the year, something that would make her laugh like a chimpanzee on a truckload of bananas. But it was the timer.
“What’d you do? Crawl?” she cackled in her distinctive Southern drawl. Because I know her to be a kind and wonderful woman, because she is a perfectly sound and knowledgeable expert on fitness and health, and because I know I stink as a runner, I laughed, too.
Since then, my seasons of running have been limited to those times when I reflect on my belief that the best reason to run is because you can. I think about those who wish they could walk, run, even crawl a mile, and I feel the need to pick up the pace. Sometimes, I even smile.
I am not a runner. I know people who run, like Gerald Miller. He’s a longtime family friend and has likely logged more miles than the collective drivers of NASCAR. Gerald was featured in a NIKE ad. A photograph taken at the end of a marathon showed him peeling a pair of strategically placed Band-Aids from his sweaty chest. He was smiling.
Charles and Audrey Jackson run. They are fit and happy. They extol the virtues of running, and my eyes glaze over. I have soggy joints and a bad history with running. My physical education instructor in college can vouch for that.
When I was a freshman, I enrolled in Sissy Beacham’s Fitness and Conditioning class at what was then the Jefferson Davis Campus of Mississippi Gulf Coast Community College. My dad taught there. Sissy and he were good friends, so it was with great trepidation that I entered her class that first day, all lumpy and out of shape. I knew that my progress would be monitored with particular interest.
Our class included students of varying degrees of fitness. Some were runners. It was the era of Jane Fonda and videotaped aerobics. Many of the females showed up in cute pink tights and leg warmers, bouncy ponytails and lip-gloss. I dressed out in an old tee shirt and sweats. To my credit, I was eager to tone my muscles and burn fat, boost my metabolism and eat properly. As soon as Miss Beacham got out the calipers, though, my eagerness turned to flat out despondency.
She pinched the fat on our stomachs, our underarms, and our thighs. She measured our unhealthy indiscretions with a wicked device that revealed to the tenth of an inch the blubber we carried on our fleshy carcasses. She calculated our BMI, a ratio of weight to height used to determine your level of fitness. Oh, the inhumanity of it all! If I could have run fast, I would have bolted right then and there.
But I stuck with the program. We worked out on the stage of the gymnasium, following Miss Beacham’s lead while we lifted legs and crunched our abs and stifled moans of agony. I started walking every day, the one exercise that has never failed me. I lost weight and I felt better. There was a problem. To complete the course we had to run. Did I mention I am not a runner?
At the end of the semester, I took Miss Beacham’s timer with me, the kind you see sports officials use at the track. I had to run a mile, record the time it took me to complete it, and report to Miss Beacham.
Out on the lonely road, dodging cars and a serious need to collapse, I ran. I ran as fast as I could. I called up every incentive I could muster to will my legs onward. The Little Engine That Could cheered me on. The thrill of the fabled “runner’s high” taunted me. Finally, I rounded the corner for the home stretch and finished that fearsome mile with a final click of the timer.
Miss Beacham was sitting behind her desk when I delivered the news. I’d like to think someone had just told her the joke of the year, something that would make her laugh like a chimpanzee on a truckload of bananas. But it was the timer.
“What’d you do? Crawl?” she cackled in her distinctive Southern drawl. Because I know her to be a kind and wonderful woman, because she is a perfectly sound and knowledgeable expert on fitness and health, and because I know I stink as a runner, I laughed, too.
Since then, my seasons of running have been limited to those times when I reflect on my belief that the best reason to run is because you can. I think about those who wish they could walk, run, even crawl a mile, and I feel the need to pick up the pace. Sometimes, I even smile.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Ken Murphy books
Here's the ordering information for Ken Murphy's second edition of My South Coast Home and his new title, Mississippi:
Email the author, Ken Murphy, at kenmurphysouth@aol.com
Tell him you found his book info on my blog!
Contact your local bookseller or any online bookseller with the following information. They can order from the distributor. Quantities are limited, but a second print run is in the works.
My South Coast Home
2nd Edition 2006
ISBN 0-9788450-0-5
ISBN 978-0-9788450-0-1
Mississippi
ISBN 0-9788450-1-3
ISBN 9-780978-845018
Barnes and Noble in Gulfport, MS will carry both titles, initially. Contact them at:
Barnes & Noble BooksellersGulfport
Gulfport Shopping Center
15246 Crossroads Parkway
Gulfport, MS 39503
228-832-8906
Or use this link to order signed copies of Mississippi from Lemuria Books in Jackson, MS and view an online gallery of photos:
http://www.lemuriabooks.com/index.php?show=book&isbn=WFES305519
Tell him you found his book info on my blog!
Contact your local bookseller or any online bookseller with the following information. They can order from the distributor. Quantities are limited, but a second print run is in the works.
My South Coast Home
2nd Edition 2006
ISBN 0-9788450-0-5
ISBN 978-0-9788450-0-1
Mississippi
ISBN 0-9788450-1-3
ISBN 9-780978-845018
Barnes and Noble in Gulfport, MS will carry both titles, initially. Contact them at:
Barnes & Noble BooksellersGulfport
Gulfport Shopping Center
15246 Crossroads Parkway
Gulfport, MS 39503
228-832-8906
Or use this link to order signed copies of Mississippi from Lemuria Books in Jackson, MS and view an online gallery of photos:
http://www.lemuriabooks.com/index.php?show=book&isbn=WFES305519
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Ken Murphy Captures the REAL Mississippi
Ken Murphy Captures the Real Mississippi
To say Ken Murphy takes Mississippi pictures is like saying William Faulkner wrote Mississippi stories. In my years freelancing for newspapers and magazines, I have developed an affinity for truly gifted artists, so much so that I am tempted to seek an interview more for the interesting conversation than for the byline and paycheck. Talking with Ken Murphy always makes me glad to be a writer.
“My South Coast Home” is a coffee table book of photographs from Ken’s home beat, the Mississippi Gulf Coast. He is a native of Bay St. Louis. Yet, one of the things I like about Ken is that he pays no mind to boundaries or county lines or city limits. His eye for the beauty and spirit of his coastal territory obscures everything but a continuity of land, water and sky.
His first coffee table book literally took my breath away. In it, the images transported me to places I knew well growing up in Long Beach. They are all the more precious now, these pictures of churches and restaurants and local landmarks, most of which Hurricane Katrina wiped from the face of the Earth many months ago. Still, my favorite photographs are those of coastal bayous, pelicans and panoramic views of a fading sun on a watery horizon, the things that even a killer storm couldn’t destroy.
Ken’s second book, “Mississippi,” will be available to the public January 15, 2007. Trust me. You want to save a little Christmas money for this. Because I had the great fortune to edit and write copy for this book, I got a sneak peek of the 165 photographs that fill its pages. I am a sentimental sap. Needless to say, when Rick Dobbs, the designer, sent previews in email, I sat at my computer and cried. Never had I felt so proud to call Mississippi my home. I was awestruck. From serene pastoral landscapes to a rapturous view atop Mount Woodall, the images portray our state as the natural wonder and culturally diverse destination that I wish outsiders could finally, once and for all, understand.
We hear about statistics that tell us we are at the bottom of the barrel. I know, too, that statistics don’t reveal the true nature of things and that economic indicators may not accurately reflect the potential of a place. What I do fully comprehend is that Mississippi is a state much maligned and misunderstood. We have come far. We have made significant progress. We have healed many of the wounds that the civil rights era dug so deeply over 40 years ago. People like Ken Murphy and the books he has masterfully created should serve as a wake up call. Just look at our state and see how very much of it is innately and undeniably spectacular.
Another thing that makes Ken a top-notch artist is his appreciation for the people who helped him along the way. He is eager to please, dedicated to his craft and feverishly passionate for making every image count. He listens when people tell him for the millionth time that he really should get a picture of this or that. But I have to say, the images that draw me in and make me want to stay are those that are clearly caught out of serendipity, the ones that present themselves when man and camera and light just happen to be in the right place at the right time.
I have never believed in coincidence or luck. Neither has anything to do with the photographs of Ken Murphy. I think there’s a reason that sometimes, the sun is in just the right position, and the clouds are just where they need to be, that for just long enough, the gulls catch a downdraft and the mullet eject from the surface and the sparkle from their spray disperses a rainbow while a solitary man, who has waited for hours, catches it all on film.
Still, whether it’s divine intervention or luck of the draw, living in Mississippi should make you feel fortunate. To see Ken Murphy’s books is to witness the enduring reasons it’s nothing but a good thing to call Mississippi home.
To say Ken Murphy takes Mississippi pictures is like saying William Faulkner wrote Mississippi stories. In my years freelancing for newspapers and magazines, I have developed an affinity for truly gifted artists, so much so that I am tempted to seek an interview more for the interesting conversation than for the byline and paycheck. Talking with Ken Murphy always makes me glad to be a writer.
“My South Coast Home” is a coffee table book of photographs from Ken’s home beat, the Mississippi Gulf Coast. He is a native of Bay St. Louis. Yet, one of the things I like about Ken is that he pays no mind to boundaries or county lines or city limits. His eye for the beauty and spirit of his coastal territory obscures everything but a continuity of land, water and sky.
His first coffee table book literally took my breath away. In it, the images transported me to places I knew well growing up in Long Beach. They are all the more precious now, these pictures of churches and restaurants and local landmarks, most of which Hurricane Katrina wiped from the face of the Earth many months ago. Still, my favorite photographs are those of coastal bayous, pelicans and panoramic views of a fading sun on a watery horizon, the things that even a killer storm couldn’t destroy.
Ken’s second book, “Mississippi,” will be available to the public January 15, 2007. Trust me. You want to save a little Christmas money for this. Because I had the great fortune to edit and write copy for this book, I got a sneak peek of the 165 photographs that fill its pages. I am a sentimental sap. Needless to say, when Rick Dobbs, the designer, sent previews in email, I sat at my computer and cried. Never had I felt so proud to call Mississippi my home. I was awestruck. From serene pastoral landscapes to a rapturous view atop Mount Woodall, the images portray our state as the natural wonder and culturally diverse destination that I wish outsiders could finally, once and for all, understand.
We hear about statistics that tell us we are at the bottom of the barrel. I know, too, that statistics don’t reveal the true nature of things and that economic indicators may not accurately reflect the potential of a place. What I do fully comprehend is that Mississippi is a state much maligned and misunderstood. We have come far. We have made significant progress. We have healed many of the wounds that the civil rights era dug so deeply over 40 years ago. People like Ken Murphy and the books he has masterfully created should serve as a wake up call. Just look at our state and see how very much of it is innately and undeniably spectacular.
Another thing that makes Ken a top-notch artist is his appreciation for the people who helped him along the way. He is eager to please, dedicated to his craft and feverishly passionate for making every image count. He listens when people tell him for the millionth time that he really should get a picture of this or that. But I have to say, the images that draw me in and make me want to stay are those that are clearly caught out of serendipity, the ones that present themselves when man and camera and light just happen to be in the right place at the right time.
I have never believed in coincidence or luck. Neither has anything to do with the photographs of Ken Murphy. I think there’s a reason that sometimes, the sun is in just the right position, and the clouds are just where they need to be, that for just long enough, the gulls catch a downdraft and the mullet eject from the surface and the sparkle from their spray disperses a rainbow while a solitary man, who has waited for hours, catches it all on film.
Still, whether it’s divine intervention or luck of the draw, living in Mississippi should make you feel fortunate. To see Ken Murphy’s books is to witness the enduring reasons it’s nothing but a good thing to call Mississippi home.
Live Like Dumpling--- Glad, Not Sad
Live Like Dumpling--Glad Not Sad
Eulogies intrigue me. My friend Kel sent the link to one delivered by Reverend William Sloane Coffin of Riverside Church in New York, ten days after his 24-year-old son died in a car accident. www.pbs.org/now/society/eulogy.html
The words are far from sad. They are deeply powerful. Coffin’s sentiments echo perfectly my belief that the will of God has absolutely nothing to do with death and misery and everything to do with a desire to see us embrace grace and unconditional love.
If ever there were a time you want somebody to get the words just right, I would imagine your memoriam would be it. Thinking about your own eulogy feels a little morbid, perhaps frightening, but it is an effective incentive to take a personal inventory. What will people say about us when we die?
“He sure knew how to pinch a penny.”
“She was great at getting her way.”
“He worked every waking hour.”
“She was always so…thin.”
When we recall the lives of those we love, seldom do we mention the things that society values so soundly, like ambition or wealth. The memories tend toward the goodness and mercy of people. We talk of the times we laughed and cried together, first dates and weddings, road trips and better times.
When my friend Teresa died last year, her friends and family stood to share the spirit of a woman who never gave up, who laughed right up until her final days. Smiling bravely, breast cancer survivors told us how Teresa’s courage and humor inspired their recovery, how she celebrated their remission. I cried like a baby, out of sadness, yes, but also in appreciation of her validation. Life is good, people, I heard Teresa say. Make it good.
Regardless how successful we are in setting ourselves apart from others, there is one inescapable commonality: No one leaves this Earth alive, except for astronauts. Biblical teachings speak of jeweled gates and crowns of gold in heaven. I am hopeful that is an analogy to the bliss of going home. I tend to imagine that our passing takes us to a place that smells of fresh apples and new grass, a warm and wonderful place that suddenly makes all the sense in the world.
Dumpling, one of our childhood pets, taught me an early lesson about dying. She was a big, happy mixed breed dog. She loved to eat, loved to be outside chasing cats and kids, loved to sprawl in the hot sun until her black fur felt near combustion. When she got sick, I got angry. I loved that dog. It felt hugely unjust that her time was up. I was a young hormonal girl, wanting so desperately to make sense of why anybody has to die.
On a white wicker couch on our back porch, I sat next to that big dog and cried. Loud. I emptied my soul, and scraped the sides, sobbing because I felt so helpless. She took her last breath and I cried some more. I learned about grief, but I also learned about peace.
Over time, I accepted the lasting lesson, that although loss of a loved one hurts, the pain can and does diminish. What eases the grief, to some degree, is to know that they lived as Dumpling did, contented and glad. She heartily enjoyed outdoor romps, good food and friendly faces. To see her was to know that life is very good, not counting tomorrow. Some of us get more days than others, and while that might seem unfair, the most regrettable injustice is when we take precious time for granted, like reruns and good health.
What will people say about me when I die? I hope it will be along the lines of what I said to Dumpling as a brilliant blue sky heralded her departure.
“Oh, man, I’m gonna miss you. I love you. I’ll see you again one day.”
Eulogies intrigue me. My friend Kel sent the link to one delivered by Reverend William Sloane Coffin of Riverside Church in New York, ten days after his 24-year-old son died in a car accident. www.pbs.org/now/society/eulogy.html
The words are far from sad. They are deeply powerful. Coffin’s sentiments echo perfectly my belief that the will of God has absolutely nothing to do with death and misery and everything to do with a desire to see us embrace grace and unconditional love.
If ever there were a time you want somebody to get the words just right, I would imagine your memoriam would be it. Thinking about your own eulogy feels a little morbid, perhaps frightening, but it is an effective incentive to take a personal inventory. What will people say about us when we die?
“He sure knew how to pinch a penny.”
“She was great at getting her way.”
“He worked every waking hour.”
“She was always so…thin.”
When we recall the lives of those we love, seldom do we mention the things that society values so soundly, like ambition or wealth. The memories tend toward the goodness and mercy of people. We talk of the times we laughed and cried together, first dates and weddings, road trips and better times.
When my friend Teresa died last year, her friends and family stood to share the spirit of a woman who never gave up, who laughed right up until her final days. Smiling bravely, breast cancer survivors told us how Teresa’s courage and humor inspired their recovery, how she celebrated their remission. I cried like a baby, out of sadness, yes, but also in appreciation of her validation. Life is good, people, I heard Teresa say. Make it good.
Regardless how successful we are in setting ourselves apart from others, there is one inescapable commonality: No one leaves this Earth alive, except for astronauts. Biblical teachings speak of jeweled gates and crowns of gold in heaven. I am hopeful that is an analogy to the bliss of going home. I tend to imagine that our passing takes us to a place that smells of fresh apples and new grass, a warm and wonderful place that suddenly makes all the sense in the world.
Dumpling, one of our childhood pets, taught me an early lesson about dying. She was a big, happy mixed breed dog. She loved to eat, loved to be outside chasing cats and kids, loved to sprawl in the hot sun until her black fur felt near combustion. When she got sick, I got angry. I loved that dog. It felt hugely unjust that her time was up. I was a young hormonal girl, wanting so desperately to make sense of why anybody has to die.
On a white wicker couch on our back porch, I sat next to that big dog and cried. Loud. I emptied my soul, and scraped the sides, sobbing because I felt so helpless. She took her last breath and I cried some more. I learned about grief, but I also learned about peace.
Over time, I accepted the lasting lesson, that although loss of a loved one hurts, the pain can and does diminish. What eases the grief, to some degree, is to know that they lived as Dumpling did, contented and glad. She heartily enjoyed outdoor romps, good food and friendly faces. To see her was to know that life is very good, not counting tomorrow. Some of us get more days than others, and while that might seem unfair, the most regrettable injustice is when we take precious time for granted, like reruns and good health.
What will people say about me when I die? I hope it will be along the lines of what I said to Dumpling as a brilliant blue sky heralded her departure.
“Oh, man, I’m gonna miss you. I love you. I’ll see you again one day.”
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