By Elizabeth Gage
Today is Veteran’s Day, and we stop to remember those who have
served us and the cause of freedom in the military.
Today is Veteran’s Day, and we stop to remember those who have served us and the cause of freedom in the military.
It makes me think about the role of service in a well-lived life.
Last Thursday I went to the funeral of a man I never met.
Our neighbors’ father had died at age 82. Friends and family filled Sacred Heart Church to overflowing. I won’t call them mourners, because while there were many red eyes and shaky voices, the spirit of the gathering was jolly rather than mournful. His wife of 60+ years, six children, many grandchildren, and other relatives were all there. Many other faces, familiar and not, joined in. I don’t want to invade their privacy but I was moved enough to share my thoughts.
He had served in the Navy in World War II, but I got the feeling his real service was sharing the gift of himself with others.
One sister read a letter he had written her about two weeks before his death. It was full of gratitude. He really appreciated the two drinks before dinner he was receiving at the VA hospital. He remembered funny times, and reassured the sister and the rest of the family of his love.
Another woman told of the man’s service to his communities, his fondness for cribbage and his motto: “Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved body… slide in sideways’with a drink in your hand, body thoroughly used up, and screaming ‘Holy Mackerel! What a ride!'”
I contrast this with another man, who I did know, who died last March. He would have been 92 this month. He was an academic, fairly eminent in a narrow, abstract field of study.
He, too, had served in World War II but believed his real service was in the profundity of this academic work.
He was a determined agnostic, and would have been ill at ease, disdainful even, with the jovial priest, the children’s choir, the communion and the prayers of last Thursday’s ceremony.
He had worked with iron discipline to stay healthy and live a long time, walking four miles a day, even after two knee replacements, well into his eighties. He never drank or smoked, and I doubt he knew what cribbage is.
He played and taught violin as a boy and young man, but in his old age classical music only made him cry.
Not only did few of his family members go to his funeral, two of his five kids bore long grudges and weren’t speaking to him at the time of his death.
He thought of himself as a witty man, but I don’t remember laughing much in his presence.
I laughed more at the memorial service.
The academic died desperately wanting more time to finish a book he was working on.
The man being remembered last Thursday was reconciled to his departure from this world, helped by his faith that he would be going to a better one. He felt his life had been a good one.
I wish I had met this man while he lived.
I can still learn from his example.
I’m going to worry less and laugh more.
I’m going to put friends and family, especially kids first.
I’m going to keep doing service, even if it’s only smiling at strangers.
I might even learn to play cribbage.
Elizabeth Gage’s column runs weekly in the Free Lance.
