Honoring a Life Well-Lived

He died.

How do we approach those words? Lately, I have heard that many times. Some were about people I did not know well. But others were close friends.

Today, it came about one of my closest friends.

Johnny was one of a kind. He had served as mayor of the town and was one of my elders in the church I served. But that doesn’t do him service.

He had a unique ability to correct and affirm at the same time. Once, he told me that my preaching lacked something. He did not know what it was. It wasn’t a complaint. It was the most challenging compliment to give—I want to make you better.

We went to high school playoff games in the Astrodome together, even though neither knew the teams playing. It was the experience that cemented the friendship.

When something broke, Johnny was there. He put in a water heater for us and an attic staircase, then organized the attic.

What do you do when someone close dies? I’ve had to ponder that more times than I ever want.

I have learned that out of the pain comes the answer from the strangest of places.

I saw a movie called Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium several years ago. It was a kids’ movie with a grownup message.

Dustin Hoffman played a shop owner of a magical toy store. It comes his time to go, and he reassures his friends with a speech:

When King Lear dies in Act V, do you know what Shakespeare has written? He’s written “He dies.” That’s all, nothing more. No fanfare, no metaphor, no brilliant final words. The culmination of the most influential work of dramatic literature is “He dies.” It takes Shakespeare, a genius, to come up with “He dies.” And yet every time I read those two words, I find myself overwhelmed with dysphoria. And I know it’s only natural to be sad, but not because of the words “He dies,” but because of the life we saw prior to the words. I’ve lived all five of my acts, Mahoney, and I am not asking you to be happy that I must go. I’m only asking that you turn the page, continue reading… and let the next story begin. And if anyone asks what became of me, you relate my life in all its wonder, and end it with a simple and modest “He died.”

But then, he says, “We are not sad because someone dies. We are glad because they lived.”

That’s how I feel about today’s situation. I would have been poorer if Johnny had not crossed my path.

So I remember the good that he gave, how he poured so much into me that made me a complete person.

When someone dies, take a moment amid tears to smile at all the joy given. The tears will fade, but the joy will outlast them.

Johnny was not one for sentimentality. Before we moved, he left early and said, “I don’t say goodbye. I just say “See you later.”

So I shall end with “See you later.”