“I’m sad that it took the death of my dad to re-connect us.”
Three weeks ago on a late Thursday afternoon, I received an email from a former client from whom I hadn’t heard in nearly 13 years. “Hi Sharon — It is a blast from your past! How have you been?” the email began. Michael quickly caught me up on the story of his life during the past decade and then got to why he was re-connecting. His father had died three days earlier from liver failure, and his mother wanted him to deliver the eulogy at the funeral service scheduled in less than two days — 9:30 Saturday morning. Michael needed my help.
No question we will be operating under a tight deadline, but I can think of no person in this world who would be better at shaping and framing our family’s view of my father. . . . If this can fit into your schedule, please let me know.
I replied to Michael’s email and given the deadline, we went straight to work over the phone. I asked Michael to shut his eyes and describe what image of his dad immediately came to mind.
“My dad at his grandkids’ softball games, dance recitals — no matter what, my dad always showed up,” said Michael.
He always showed up became the theme and refrain of the eulogy . . . Michael’s dad always showed up for his community and church, his kids and grandkids, and his wife. Around 11:30 the night before the funeral, Michael sent me a draft of his eulogy which I began to edit four hours later. After three rounds of drafts and with an hour to spare, Michael left for his father’s funeral. In the early afternoon, he sent me the following text:
Michael then called me the day after, and asked how he could repay me. I replied that the only thing that I wanted was for him to call me when he was ready and to take a few minutes to listen to the story of my life over the last decade. He said he would call within a week, and later sent a heads-up email to expect his call “next week.”
I have yet to hear from him.
I can look at Michael’s silence in one of two ways: he’s a CEO in corporate America where — based on my experience — no good deed goes unpunished; or . . . he’s grief-stricken. Felled. Knocked to the ground. Pitched out of life into something else.
I know this. The main reason I dropped everything to assist Michael with his father’s eulogy is because Michael had the opportunity to give one at his father’s funeral service. My mother died seven months ago today. She had no funeral service. Or eulogy. Not even an obituary . . .
Showing up — Part Two will be published next week.
The featured image in this post is a small portion of a larger oil painting (approx. 4.5 ft x 2.5 ft) entitled, “Monument to James Dean.” It was a gift from my friend, the artist Eric Scott Shultis, and hangs in my stairwell.
A member of my writing group — the Write Wing — shared last week that it’s not that unusual for a parent to die in anonymity. She doesn’t know where her father is, “he could be in jail, he could be dead, I don’t know.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?” I asked.
“No,” she replied. “My mother died years ago — she may have even killed herself. One of my siblings is in and out of mental institutions. I’m better off without them.”
That’s one way of dealing with grief and loss.
Wow, Sharon, you are sharing riches today, in both post and comments. I look forward to the next installment and am trusting Micheal to show up and listen to your story. Thanks for sharing.
You’re welcome, Beth — you are such a generous and kind soul.
Oh my Friend, you always DO SHOW UP, don’t you! Thank you, not only for showing up, but also for reminding us of the importance of doing just that. How easily we dismiss our promises and leave scars in so many lives.
Yes, I do show up, Carol, but it’s not a gift I received from my parents (the topic of “Part Two” of this post). It’s a gift I received from my friends. My friends have always — always and all ways — shown up for me. I’m just paying it forward.
Thank you for reading this post and commenting. I appreciate it — and you!
I don’t know why I am thinking about this, but after reading today’s post, I started missing the innocence of my youth. Maybe not my youth, but the innocence of a young child – not really understanding death, eulogies, obituaries. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to think about them. I wish I didn’t have to think about why we didn’t have a service for mom where she could have been eulogized and why an obituary wasn’t written for her. I don’t think I’ll ever understand that.
Sorry to just now be responding to your very heartfelt comment, Merrie Lee. As cliche as this seems, you are not alone. This post (and others to come) is a way for me to try and understand why our mother’s death brought out the kid in me, you AND our dad. As typical as it may seem to one of the members of my writing group, I continue to believe that our parents’ relationship to their children was bizarre and wounding while they were alive and even more so now that one of them has died.
I’m so sorry. Let’s continue to write our way through. xoxo
Just now catching up. When Michael was completely down, he called you. He trusted you and he trusted your words and your ability to tell a story and reveal the heart of another’s life. Yes, yes, yes. You do indeed show up and you bring your heart and your words. You are fabulous.
Just got an opportunity to quietly read this. Very powerful. I loved it yet it made me so sad. Thank you.
Wow, dear Kelly — you showed up from Portugal and Spain, where you’ve been vacationing, to post a comment here! Thanks so much. Sorry the post made you sad. Writing it was initially sad for me, but ultimately healing. That’s the power of words; the power of having the courage, as one of my writing teachers once said, to: “Write the f#cker out.”
Travel blessings. xoxo