Earning My Eulogy

By Vernie Lynn DeMille

 

I want to earn my eulogy.

So someday in my children’s past

They’ll remember me as I wished I could be.

 

They’ll box me up and pass out tissues

(And hopefully no one dresses in black)

And tell the story I tried to write

 

Across the pages of many days,

In the book of long years,

In a multi-decade volume called “my life”.

 

And I ponder today,

when I feel long from dead,

What will they say?

 

“She was kind of crazy” is bound to be said,

And they’ll have no argument there.

If we can’t be honest when we’re dead, then when?

 

But what else?

What if I actually did all those things

I want them to say I did?

 

What if I was always the friend, 

The one who was kind to the lonely kid,

Or brought the soup when someone needed to be fed?

 

What if I was always there

When tears were too heavy

For all my loves to carry alone?

 

What if wise, kind, generous

Were so common a theme

That they wouldn’t have to work or strain

 

To find the words to say “she was…” 

They’d just be there in every condolence

And memory shared.

 

In every friend

Who laughs and cries together and

Says “Remember when?”

 

 

Then they wouldn’t need

To tell sweet lies in church

And make me a hypocrite

 

Before my God;

Who sees my naked soul,

Barren of all the deceits I use to hide

 

The things I try to fix

But can’t quite change;

The dreams I wish

 

I could fulfill,

But feel too weak

To accomplish.

 

Because feeling weak is just an idea,

Like worry, or fear, or hope.

And ideas can change

 

The course of history,

And my own mind.

So while I breathe

 

And while I stand 

Upon the ground instead of lie within it,

I’ll earn that obituary.

 

 

The one that says “her heart was kind”,

“She loved kids and cookies”,

“She never missed a chance to smile.”

 

I’ll get up from the comfort

Of my own front porch

 and walk that second mile,

 

Find a way to turn weakness into wisdom,

Sadness into strength,

And let God turn my heart into Gold.

 

So my children won’t need excuses,

Or reasons, or therapy

When I finally bid them adieu. 

 

And they can write my name

On a headstone, and plant me like a seed,

And what I’ve learned will live on in their lives.

 

Because I’ll share it.

Share it until they’re sick of it,

And they cry when the admonitions end.

 

And it may be sorrow, or it may be relief

For some blessed silence, but no matter what

They’ll know what my words were:

 

The words were love,

And the soup was love,

And the time I spent with them was love.

 

And the words were kind,

And they were generous,

And in the crazy was a wisdom 

 

That knew crazy is doing what 

The world believes impossible

But the heart knows is right.

 

And when they walk away to leave me,

In a sunny, flower strewn field of green,

 they and I will know

 

That I earned every word.

 

August 28, 2019