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.”