10 things you’d want to be said at your funeral! Have you ever thought about that?

I have. (Yeah, unfortunately, that’s how my mind works.)

My grandmother had a term she used about aging. She called it “the approaching Shade.” That’s so poetic and melancholy.

Sometimes I think about the approaching Shade. Not in a morbid way at all. It’s just a sweet way of realizing that I have more behind me than I do ahead of me, and that’s okay.

BUT – I have zero desire to be leaving this physical plane anytime soon. I have a lot to do yet.

So. 10 things you’d want to be said at your funeral. Coming up with that list can be an enlightening exercise.

Here’s my 10.

1. Tony was my go-to person for all things Disney. By his own admission, his passion for the Mouse was inexplicable. He was a fountain of Disney trivia, he considered Walt Disney World his second home, and if you were planning a trip yourself, he’d put together the ultimate experience for you. I’m surprised he’s not being buried in mouse ears.
2. Tony loved performing magic. He never was all that good, but people laughed and enjoyed themselves. That was more than sufficient.
3. Tony was a more-than-decent cook. He was absorbed by the Food Network. Turn him loose in the kitchen and he was a happy guy. And grilling? Give that boy a spatula, a properly heated and prepared grill, and some red meat, and he was good to go. He was an unrepentant carnivore. Well, actually an omnivore. There was only one food in all creation he wouldn’t eat – coconut. He didn’t like the way it looked, the way it smelled, its texture. He didn’t want to see a picture of it on a box. He didn’t even want you to eat it. He wanted to at least be able to tolerate it before he died. That didn’t happen.
4. Tony loved to travel. There was always somewhere else to go and see and do. He was as comfortable in an urban setting as he was in nature. Well rounded, yes? He’d soak up those experiences like a sponge. He always said he preferred mountains to the beach, but in later years decided the beach was okay. He liked the water. If told, “Here’s a towel. I want you to spread it out on that unbearably hot white dirt and lay on it. I want the sun to cook you to a neon pink,” then he would scream and run.
5. Tony was not vain. He would have like to have been “dapper,” but that involved too much work, and he cordially detested having to wear a necktie.
6. Tony was self-depreciating. He was never hesitant to poke fun at himself, and he never, ever wanted to take himself too seriously. “Contempt” might be too strong a word, but he tended to be annoyed by people who did take themselves too seriously. He believed that many of the problems of the world stemmed from humorless people who couldn’t see the absurdity of their own words and deeds. “Lighten up,” he’d say.
7. Tony’s sense of humor was warped. He loved satire. He loved seeing the high and mighty lampooned. His humor wasn’t vulgar, but it could sometimes be construed as inappropriate. For instance, he loved a good meme dealing with COVID-19. Some folks didn’t get that. At all.
8. Tony was an introvert. A textbook introvert. He loved his own company. He could mix and mingle and engage with the best of them, because he genuinely loved people. But after having to people too much, he’d have to go lay down. Sometimes he’d just get tired of folks. He could engage in small talk, but only in limited doses. When he was with you, he’d try to steer the conversation toward the meaning of life, what you’d observed about the unfolding of the world, and your dreams, goals, and aspirations. He wanted to know what you believed was your purpose in being here. He could do that for hours. He was an INFJ, and took some sort of misplaced pride in being part of the rarest of personality types – like anyone else cared!
9. Tony loved his family with a passion that was terrifying. His wife Teresa was his helpmeet and his pillar. He loved his extraordinarily different kids, Jeremy and Amy, who grew up to be honorable, ambitious young adults, and loved his in-laws, Kathleen and Stone. But those grandkids – Katherine and Levi – would absolutely cause him to lose his mind and all semblance of control. In his latter years those two were the best thing that ever happened to him.
10. Tony loved God. He was a disciple of Jesus Christ and served at His pleasure. The most important words he ever wanted to hear were “Well done, good and faithful servant.” Because of that relationship, Tony felt that his calling was simply to be an encourager.

That, folks, is what I would want to be said at my funeral. What are 10 things you’d want to be said at your funeral?

I have a lot to do to live up to my own desires. But I have some time yo work on that still. Don’t I, Lord?

Be blessed.

Tony’s Question: How about you?? What 10 things would you want to be said at your funeral? How about sharing just one of those below.

Oh, yeah … I’m taking a week-long break from the blog while I do a little vacay action. See y’all later!

This is a sequel of sorts to my last blog, “Grieve Appropriately.” I have a bit more to say, and for some reason that particular blog seemed to resonate with many of you. So there’s this.

Papa Wilson died when I was eight years old. This was in 1964. I don’t remember many details about his actual death, but I do remember that he was 84 when he died. I thought that was positively ancient.

Mama was part of a family of twelve kids. At some point you cross the threshold of having a family and it becomes a litter. She was close to her daddy, and she indeed grieved.

There was some debate with Daddy and her about whether or not I should go to the funeral. Maybe they thought I’d be traumatized. I was up for it. I had sort of a morbid fascination with the whole process. I had a nebulous idea about how all this worked from TV shows and movies. I knew it was all about preparing the body for burial, picking out a casket, having the funeral itself (which these days more often referred to as a “memorial service,” as if the term “funeral” is too archaic or disturbing. Maybe they’re two different things.)

I also knew that there’d be a procession – that Papa Wilson’s casket would be carried by the pallbearers across the road from the church to the cemetery itself, and there he’d be “interred” (another infrequently used word) by being dropped into a vault in the ground and subsequently sealed and covered up in dirt. I remember thinking “what IS a pall anyway?” The whole thing, from the time the body was prepared for burial until the time it was lowered in the ground, was choreographed with the panache of a Broadway musical.

The most intriguing part of the process was what was called the “viewing.” “Wake” is another term. The excitement I felt at the time was knowing that I was going to be able to see a dead person. I loved Papa Wilson too, but I had no fear about seeing his body. I found the term “viewing” to be very accurate. We all had to take a look at him. It was part of the process, and was supposed to bring some closure. I’d add, too, that in southeast Alabama, another term was prior to the funeral you had a “sitting up,” aka wake, where someone spent the night at the funeral home or the house and sat with the body, as if it were going anywhere. The custom came from the need to keep mice and other vermin from making themselves at home in the casket – they needed to be shooed off. Or to keep the cat from sitting on the body. It didn’t matter if there were mice or cats around. You were simply expected to keep the departed company.

Papa Wilson lay in state in his house, in the parlor. I remember relatives and friends milling around on the front porch, talking in subdued whispers, as though if you were too loud it might disturb Papa Wilson. When you walked in the front door of the house, you came in the living room, and through French doors from the living room you’d enter the parlor/dining room.

So here’s young Tony, standing on the front porch, flanked by Mama and Daddy. Mama said, “Would you like to say goodbye to Papa?” I didn’t know about that … I knew he wouldn’t be able to hear me, but I also figured the goodbye was more for me than him. I said yes, but it was more of me wanting to see what he looked like than say any farewells.

So I was ushered into the parlor. People parted to let us come in. I saw the casket, gleaming in the subdued light, with the top opened, or at least half of it. I saw a white ruffle of pleated fabric spilling over the side. But because I was not grown, I couldn’t really see into it. I could see Papa Wilson’s nose and not much else.

At we approached the side of the casket I was able to peek in. Papa Wilson was dressed in a fine suit. I heard Mama sniffling, and I glanced up at Daddy. His jaws were working, his teeth clenched.

“Doesn’t he look sweet,” Mama said.

“He looks like he’s asleep,” Daddy said.

My thought? “He looks like he’s dead.” I wasn’t fooled.

Like his grandson, Papa Wilson was bald. Typically his head shone like a polished hubcap. This time, however, it was so powdered that it looked like parchment. His face was stretched tight, almost like a mask. His mouth was what disturbed me – it was though it was made of wax. (I’ve since learned that mouths can be a real problem for undertakers – because the mouth is always in motion, to see it perfectly still is an anomaly.)

I stood still and examined him with frank curiosity. I think my folks expected me to cry, or run, or something. I did none of these. Candidly, I didn’t feel anything. My primary thought was, “That’s not Papa Wilson. That’s just the horse he rode in on.”

Since that day I’ve been to many more funerals and performed a fair share, too. It’s given me plenty of opportunities to observe grief. Here’s your takeaway – everyone grieves differently, and you are in no place to judge if someone doesn’t grieve the way you would.

Which brings me back to “grieve appropriately.” I’ve already discussed that. To an observer of the eight-year-old Tony, they might feel that I didn’t grieve appropriately, if at all. That may be so.

When you think about it, grief is a part of closure, or should be. The overarching need is to move on. Grief, whatever its source, is a milestone, a transitional point from what was to what is. To get stuck in the what was can be a recipe for despair. Losses will happen, and there’s nothing that can be done about that. But staying bogged down in that loss, refusing to move on, is to doubt the bigness and sovereignty of God, who has no desire for us to be mired in the past, and is aware and present in our loss and perhaps even engineered it.

How do you move on?

This may be shallow, but … you just do. While your emotions may be raging and drowning you, understand that they are transient (unless there is some clinical problem, which we won’t go into here. I understand the reality of chronic depression, anxiety, anger, etc.).

Say this familiar biblical phrase: “And it came to pass…”

What is isn’t what will always be. And while we may always have a sense of loss after a tragedy, the reality is that it doesn’t have to cripple us. It is legitimate to miss what once was. But, armed with the knowledge that you can’t go back, and by listening to your head as well as your heart, it is possible – and necessary – to move forward toward a new horizon. What lies beyond may be a mystery, but it is no mystery in knowing that no matter where you’re headed, God is already there.