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A short time ago I received some unexpected news: my uncle
had passed away at the age of 75.
The surprise wasn’t so much in his passing, but rather in the timing. Eldon was no stranger to health issues
and his body seemed to battle several things on a daily basis, including
diabetes. He had been battling
fairly well for so many years, it didn’t seem that now would be the time.
Knowing that my aunt would be inundated with calls and
messages, I gave it a couple of days and then made the call. When I found her, she was driving home
from a granddaughter’s softball game – a much-needed break from the patterns of
thought plaguing her at home.
As I strolled a sidewalk in the fading evening light, she
related to me the events of the past several weeks. She told me how one of his sons had
come to Arizona to watch Spring Training baseball. How Eldon had gone to the
games with him. Not just a game
here or there, but 14 games in close succession. And in some very warm Arizona temperatures.
A nurse herself, my aunt explained that fatigue combined with
dehydration had created a dangerous complication with his diabetes, how once he
had overcome that another situation arose, and then, ultimately, how pneumonia
eventually took his life. I heard
the agony in her voice as she described the decision to remove him from life
support.
Eldon was gone.
My aunt was heartbroken. Children
and grandchildren were grieving deeply.
As she laid out the memorial service arrangements, a question triggered
in my mind: what story would be told in light of Eldon’s passing? Clearly his demise had been avoidable
if only he had used better judgment.
A whole lot of grief could have been spared if only some moderation had
been employed.
Knowing what I knew of Eldon – including his well-known
stubbornness to heed the warnings of his doctors, his wife, or just about
anyone else for that matter; his knack for eating the things that were
explicitly laid out on the “No, you have diabetes” List; his penchant
for doing what he wanted to do rather than what he should do, I arrived at what appeared to be a foregone
conclusion. Eldon’s story, told
properly, would be, should be, a cautionary tale.
I was pretty sure I was right. After all, there really wasn’t anything to challenge my
thinking. He had set the course of his own
demise and it was something we could all learn from.
A few days later, I sat three pews from my aunt in a traditional Methodist church. The memorial service was going just as I
had envisioned. A song, a welcome
from the pastor, the funeral liturgy, another song. And then it happened.
People – the people who knew Eldon best and loved him most – began to
talk. They told stories and shared
memories. Together they told a
tale, but it was no cautionary tale of tragedy. It was a tale of love.
Eldon was remembered – not reformulated or recreated, but
remembered – as a man who consistently gave himself to others. With his time, his talents, his joy,
his humor, his smile, his touch, and, yes, his love of baseball, he had
consistently given away what he had to share. The more they spoke, the more I realized how right they
were.
The pastor knew Eldon well through his involvement in the
church choir and the singing of solos for special events, like
weddings and funerals. He spoke of
Eldon’s dedication to the church and the ministry there. How Eldon always took his calls. How he could not remember a single
instance of Eldon turning down a request to use his musical gifts at someone's special
event. How, despite his declining
health through the years, Eldon always came. First he came more slowly, then he came with a cane, then he
had to sit during the singing, but still he came.
Over and over Eldon was remembered for what he routinely
gave away – his time, his presence, his gifts, his love, a smile, an
encouraging word, a piece of candy.
From what I gleaned, Eldon was never about guarding what he could keep
to himself or for himself, but always about how he could bless someone else.
It was in those moments that I realized how well Eldon had
actually lived. Had he lived
another way, he may have lived longer.
But while he lived, he had lived well. And it became undeniably clear that he had also loved well.
It made me wonder… Are we too focused on our own life’s
longevity? And not enough on
life’s brevity? Could it be that
we are ignoring Jesus’ advice rather than heeding it? After all, it was Jesus who said that whoever tries to save
his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life will save it.
Eldon’s life was a cautionary tale all right. It just wasn’t the caution I was
expecting. As near as I can tell, Eldon hadn’t spent much of his life
trying to save it, but he had spent much of his life and he had spent it well.
“It’s what you sow that multiplies, not what you keep in the
barn.”
--Adrian Rogers
