The other day, I heard a grandfather speak of his grandson’s death with more honesty than ever I have heard. And it shocked me. He said, “My grandson, you know, he was not a good boy, he was a rebellious boy. He had a good heart, but he was rebellious.” It was a little bit hard to hear. I’m so used to hearing that we only lose the ones that the world is not worthy of. Amazing.
I remember hearing a story about this family who’s son got into gangs and drugs. Mafia I guess. Eventually the son got killed. The police were familiar with him. He’d caused a lot of trouble to the community at large. But when he died, the family paid (or arranged for.. however it’s done) for a 2 page full write up of their son, stating how he was such a good boy and had lived such a good life. The next day a public outcry arose and letters flooded the newspaper, denouncing the man. Again, a full two page write up. But this time not so positive. Either his family was full of lies or they were unable to accept reality.
When I die, I want people to tell the truth. Say, “sometimes she got really irritable and was hard to be around, but we still loved her,” “Sometimes she was a bully, sometimes she gave me dirty looks . . . sometimes I could feel her judging me, sometimes . . . but we loved her.” I don’t know why it feels so wrong to remember the bad things about dead people. Is it to help give them that final push we think they might need to make it into heaven? Is it to comfort us concerning their eternal destination? When I hear people talk about the dead in such terms, I’m either confused thinking, “Ahh… I guess I really didn’t know the guy. Hmm. Interesting” or I am wowed into believe that the guy was a veritable saint and I could never measure up to him. As I sit and listen to the wonder aspects of the individual’s life, I start making lists of nicer things I need to start doing . .. visiting old folks homes and baking cookies for Sunday school.
Or do we remember (and embellish) the great stuff because we’ve suddenly realized that we didn’t take the time to consider the real value of our friend until too late, until that instant when what was common became the rarest of rare: gone. So at the funeral we say such complimentary things. Is that why?
How about saying all that stuff while people are alive? I don’t want to feel like I missed it and have to stretch the truth in order to make up for lost time. Why do we feel like we have to remember only the shiny things? Isn’t there beauty in mistakes and quirks?
Anyways, when I die, please tell the truth about me. We all know Jesus didn’t die for me for nothing. Maybe that’s it. In my death will be a testimony: She was all these things good and bad, and He redeemed her and that alone is why we can be sure she is in heaven with Him.
Come to think of it, tell me while I’m alive. Good and bad. “The wounds of a friend” . . . you know.
It just shocked me into thinking. I’ve never heard anyone admit the truth in such a candid way about someone they loved dearly, wishing it could have been different, but refusing to gloss over reality.
I remember hearing a story about this family who’s son got into gangs and drugs. Mafia I guess. Eventually the son got killed. The police were familiar with him. He’d caused a lot of trouble to the community at large. But when he died, the family paid (or arranged for.. however it’s done) for a 2 page full write up of their son, stating how he was such a good boy and had lived such a good life. The next day a public outcry arose and letters flooded the newspaper, denouncing the man. Again, a full two page write up. But this time not so positive. Either his family was full of lies or they were unable to accept reality.
When I die, I want people to tell the truth. Say, “sometimes she got really irritable and was hard to be around, but we still loved her,” “Sometimes she was a bully, sometimes she gave me dirty looks . . . sometimes I could feel her judging me, sometimes . . . but we loved her.” I don’t know why it feels so wrong to remember the bad things about dead people. Is it to help give them that final push we think they might need to make it into heaven? Is it to comfort us concerning their eternal destination? When I hear people talk about the dead in such terms, I’m either confused thinking, “Ahh… I guess I really didn’t know the guy. Hmm. Interesting” or I am wowed into believe that the guy was a veritable saint and I could never measure up to him. As I sit and listen to the wonder aspects of the individual’s life, I start making lists of nicer things I need to start doing . .. visiting old folks homes and baking cookies for Sunday school.
Or do we remember (and embellish) the great stuff because we’ve suddenly realized that we didn’t take the time to consider the real value of our friend until too late, until that instant when what was common became the rarest of rare: gone. So at the funeral we say such complimentary things. Is that why?
How about saying all that stuff while people are alive? I don’t want to feel like I missed it and have to stretch the truth in order to make up for lost time. Why do we feel like we have to remember only the shiny things? Isn’t there beauty in mistakes and quirks?
Anyways, when I die, please tell the truth about me. We all know Jesus didn’t die for me for nothing. Maybe that’s it. In my death will be a testimony: She was all these things good and bad, and He redeemed her and that alone is why we can be sure she is in heaven with Him.
Come to think of it, tell me while I’m alive. Good and bad. “The wounds of a friend” . . . you know.
It just shocked me into thinking. I’ve never heard anyone admit the truth in such a candid way about someone they loved dearly, wishing it could have been different, but refusing to gloss over reality.
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