Posted on 01/28/2016 5:40:50 AM PST by Kaslin
This column isn't about politics, so if you're looking for something about Donald Trump, you've just read his only mention. This column is about life and, more specifically, death. And even more specifically how we, as a species, wait too long to let people know how much they matter to us.
Eulogies are, almost without exception, touching and funny. They're where those closest to someone we've just lost tells stories and expresses feelings more than likely ignored while the subject was alive. They're great for the healing process, but they're a day late and a dollar short when it comes to the person they're about.
When David Bowie, Glenn Frey and Alan Rickman passed away without any public warning, we were all shocked. The tributes poured in about the impact they'd had on others in their chosen craft and laymen alike.
The stories flowed, riddled with laughter and great memories we, the readers, didn't share in but felt a part of because they'd been part of our cultural consciousness for decades. And although mourning a public figure, particularly one whose music or movies were part of our formative years, is perfectly normal, what about the people we actually know?
I never met Bowie, Frey, Rickman or countless other celebrities who've passed, but they all mattered, to varying degrees, in my life. Their music spoke to me. Their lyrics meant something to me they didn't to anyone else. Their movies, and the characters they played, helped make me who I am.
For those of us who didn't know them, they were the window dressing to our lives. Yet we, with our friends and family, have probably talked about how their loss, and their lives, mattered to us. But how many times have you had a discussion with the people who actually matter most to us?
We seem to wait too long to express our feelings about those we love. Be it after death or, as is often the case, after a horrible diagnosis.
After my grandfather died, my family found a letter from him to everyone in the family containing all the things he couldn't say while he was alive. It was a heart-wrenching letter of love wrapped in regret over not having expressed his love as much as he would've liked.
Never a wealthy man, or even a financially secure man, my grandpa worked at Detroit Diesel until he no longer could. My grandma, the love of his life, died of bone cancer years earlier. His letter apologized for things that haunted him, but they didn't need to.
He regretted not doing more to provide more for his family, which was absurd. He fed, housed and raised five kids - none of whom are in prison and all of whom have families who love them. By any measure that is a success. He also lamented not simply saying "I love you" to everyone more often. He felt he'd held back too much, and it tore at him.
That he could put pen to paper and write that but not say it is a regret my whole family shares. Had he, had we, who knows? We certainly could've let him know the concern over money was no concern at all; that he was grown man who had children and grandchildren who loved him and that's significantly better than anything else he could have offered.
Of course, the failure of communication was a two-way street. Aside from a passing, "Love you, grandpa," on the way out the door, we grandchildren didn't spend as much time with him as we could have.
I was in my 20s when he passed, yet I didn't avail myself of his experience and stories as much as I should have. Partly because of the arrogance of youth, when death is reserved for movies and pets, "there is always tomorrow" is the modus operandi when you feel 10 feet tall and bulletproof. But we aren't 10 feet tall, and no one is bulletproof.
My best friend lost his mother this week, I'm in Detroit right now for her funeral. She was a second mother to me - feeding me, letting me sleep over without asking, offering advice on issues you probably aren't comfortable seeking from a relative when you're young, and putting up with me when she had no real reason to.
I never told her what that meant to me because there was always tomorrow. I hadn't heeded the advice of my grandfather, and now there is no tomorrow.
But there is today for me. And there is today for all of us. I'm not unique. If you're honest with yourself, I suspect you have something and someone similar in your own lives.
We can't change the opportunities we've missed in the past, but we now know, thanks to hindsight, what they look like in the present. How are you going to spend today? With your family, your friends, the people who matter to you?
I'm going to call my parents and tell them I love them, I'm going to ask them questions about their lives and our family, and I'm going to listen to the answers. And I'm going to do it today. What are you going to do?
because action takes thought and initiative
reaction requires merely being
Reminded Me of Things We Didn’t Say.............
**********
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The things you didn’t do
Remember the day I borrowed your brand new car and I dented it?
I thought you’d kill me, but you didn’t. And remember the time I
dragged you to the beach and you said it would rain and it did?
I thought you’d say “I told you so”, but you didn’t. Do you
remember the time I flirted with all the guys to make you
jealous, and you were? I thought you’d leave me, but you didn’t.
Do you remember the time I spilled strawberry pie all over your
car rug? I thought you’d hit me, but you didn’t. And remember
the time I forgot to tell you the dance was formal and you
showed up in jeans? I thought you’d drop me, but you didn’t.
Yes there were lots of things you didn’t do. But, you put up
with me, and you loved me, and you protected me. There were lots
of things I wanted to make up to you when you returned from Vietnam.
But you didn’t!
-Author Unknown
> “He regretted not doing more to provide more for his family, which was absurd. He fed, housed and raised five kids - none of whom are in prison and all of whom have families who love them. By any measure that is a success”
Yes, a big success, and the source of spiritual wealth and abundance.
I just found out this week that a dear friend, whom I’d lost touch with years ago, had passed away in 2005 at the age of 45. I’ve been trying to reconnect with her for years, searching Facebook, etc., but to no avail, and now I know why. I reached out to her son on FB and told him how shocked and saddened I was to hear of his mother’s passing. He was genuinely touched by my condolences and thanked me for remembering her. I can totally relate to this article.
I was 52 before I heard “I love you” from a parent.
When I finally heard it, it pissed me off more than it made me feel good.
I made sure my kids heard it every single day. My wife hears it every time we speak during the day.
The strong silent thing just doesn’t work.
My mother in law passed last week at the age of 92, a first generation Italian. She was my second “mom” for over 42 years, my own mom died when I was 45. I have no regrets over my mom2’s passing, we loved each other very much and told each other that all the time. I was always her second daughter and she was always my Mom2.
Because we are lazy - and gratitude requires bold effort and courage and self-denial.
Have we thanked God today for our pants, our car starting, our breakfast, our spouse, our children, our country?
Self-denial and bold effort, courage. Pause, consider, have, and show gratitude. It is the highest form of thanks, as GK Chesterton lived.
Heartbreaking.
It’s been over 20 years since I wrote a song for my dad called “Not Waitin’ Too Late” and I debuted that song on Father’s Day 1995 in church. Little did I know my folks would drive up to LA from San Diego and surprise us by showing up at our church for worship.
It was too perfect.
He’s about to turn 85 in the spring and still healthy. I’m so undeservedly blessed.
The timing of this article is especially touching for me. Yesterday was the 51st anniversary of my Dad’s passing. He was 43 years old.
Cancer got him. I got closer to him in those horrible six months that it took for him to waste away and die. I don’t recall him ever telling me he loved me. He finally did in a letter I opened after he left us. It didn’t matter, I knew that he did.
We never had much extra money for foolish things but he always managed to find enough for that special birthday or Christmas gift. He loved my Mother unconditionally - no harsh words, no physical abuse, and certainly no philandering. If he was a little late for dinner, you wouldn’t find him at a tavern, you’d find him at the garage where he worked, trying to put a little bit extra on his next pay check.
I wanted to go up to the cemetery and visit for a while yesterday but it was raining and cold, very much like that awful afternoon so many years ago. Anyway, it’s only half a mile from me and I can go anytime. Yeah, I’m rationalizing, but I’m afraid I wasn’t a very good son my last few years of high school and I was often disrespectful. He didn’t deserve it and I get a hurt way down deep inside when stand there looking at his grave.
I’ve tried to break the cycle of not showing that needed affection for my sons and now my grandkids. It wasn’t easy to do at first but today it’s become as natural as breathing. there are hugs all around when we get together and phone calls to those living in other towns and states alway end with “I love you”.
I know I’m not the only one who has had to stop worrying about affection and “manliness”. If this causes you to feel just a little guilty, hug your family. Do it right now! It will make you, and me, a lot happier.
That was a beautiful story beelzepug. You made me cry! I know sometimes it’s especially hard for men, who are trying to be strong and stalwart, to be affectionate and say the words their kids and grandkids want to hear.
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