His stories

I don’t like to refer to it as a funeral, that memorial gathering of sad and shocked people, but that’s what it was. A funeral. His funeral. We hosted it over six weeks ago and I’m finally finding the courage to think about it, to ponder it, to appreciate it.  It was a lovely affair, as far as affairs of that nature go. It was well attended. Over two hundred people showed up to pay their respects, share their stories and offer their support. It was the best worst day anyone could have hoped for. 

Our kids and their partners were towers of strength – I am so proud of them. Their dad would have been proud too – his life’s accomplishments standing straight and tall, being strong and gracious. Our granddaughters, spit and polished and adorable. Our families, our friends who are family, our neighbors, his work colleagues, his school chums, the school chums of our children – the room was packed.

And the words. The stories.  At the end of the day we will all become the stories people will tell about us.  Their words, his stories, were lovely.  It takes a ton of courage to take the microphone on a good day, on a worst day it takes even more than that. The heartfelt stories, told by heartbroken people, were thoughtful and consistent, just like the man they were about.  They were true to him.  

He lived an authentic life, each story shared a common theme; he was kind, solid, trustworthy, gentle and generous. He was a man of his word. He affected people, influenced them and supported them.  He was a rock, a shoulder.  He dished out courage and a quiet love that encouraged.  He was well thought of – he was loved. 

I’m glad his stories are good ones but I’m not surprised.  He lived his life true to who he was, and he was good. He was the same person to everyone, he was genuine.  

I’m all about stories – I like to read them, listen to them and tell them – and that worst day was filled with stories.  It has taken me these weeks to muster the courage to think about that gathering, that funeral. It was a love filled affair, it was a celebration. I am thankful for the people who showed up, grateful for their stories. As I think about those words today it occurs to me that he wrote each and every one of them himself by just being himself.  He told the story of his life by living it. And at the end of his days it’s his stories that live on.