I've attended lots of funerals.
I enjoy funerals, mostly because of the variety of things said about a person. Normally you get a good little glimpse into what really made them. The circumstances typically allow the family to let loose on some things that may not have been so public during life. I take pleasure in the spiritual atmosphere as all in the room are thinking about this loved one and the legacy they leave behind.
The best funerals are where the example of the life well lived is illuminated through accounts of the person's devotion to right living, by their commitment to God and their family. Acts of service to fellows are often cited.
A few I remember for another reason.
When the only things said about a person are their business connections and financial achievements, I silently squirm as I listen from the back of the church.
I often think about how hollow such a life would feel to me. Perhaps it was truly fulfilling to the departed. But for me, I need to do something else with my time on Earth.
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I've been thinking recently about archaeology, since doing a few repairs to the sidewalks around the house. I've been observing the original work done back in 1920, wondering if the people who built those old walkways could even imagine the world in which I live. Looking the other direction through time, I've thought of archaeologists of the future, finding the little monuments my daughters created by their inscribed initials and handprints they've left in the fresh concrete I poured.
I marvel at how easily great treasures of historical knowledge are totally concealed by only a thin covering of soil. How much history has been lost to such simple concealment? And how much effort it takes to discover! So close, yet so far from reach.
There is much to learn from the struggles and triumphs of the past. Aren't you glad there is more history to study today than at any previous time? I smile thinking of Aunt Bee responding to Andy's observation that Opie's schoolteacher is starting him learning history at an awfully young age. "Well, there's more of it these days," she says simply.
Watching fascinating archaeology shows like PBS's Secrets of the Dead has caused me to think many times; at what point does a body in the ground stop being someone's grave, and become an archaeological curiosity, freely available to be thrown open for study by anyone willing to do the work of digging? Is it when the people who might be considered loved ones of the deceased are all gone themselves? Does the change happen when the culture of the people who buried the body goes extinct? Are we not all human, subject to the same tender feelings regarding our dead, regardless of the fraternal distance determined on biological kinship alone?
I'm only raising the questions here; I offer no real answers. The undertaker in me joins forces with the absolute believer in the universal resurrection promised through the power of God, to question the propriety of such exploitive inquiry. Yet, a recognition of the spiritual transcending the physical.
I don't know. What do you think?
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Is there any physical evidence of all the fun times and bonds of friendship formed in the sandlot baseball fields of the past? Or are the most lasting memories and most important legacies impossible to capture in soil and rock?
What legacy will you leave?
What evidence of your existence will fascinate future explorers of history?
More importantly, how might your small, simple words of encouragement and acts of kindness and sharing of light unfold and accelerate into mighty changes and growth in others? How will your influence be felt?
Will you be a hero, who only gets remembered? Or a legend, who never dies?
See also:
Powerful Ideas, by Dallin H. Oaks