Or would I breathe easier, knowing I was sparing my children the obligation of producing an obit after I died?
Recently, the urge to make some account of my life grew stronger. my children are grown and gone to jobs in other places. They are young and responsible and, more than that, they are kind and personable, the way their mother and I hoped they’d be.
They deserve to have a coherent, if not exhaustive, account of our family.
Perhaps composing my obituary would serve as a first step.
Reading the obituaries was part of my daily drill as a full-time journalist. The obits were a way to learn about the valley’s families, and sometimes they spawned a worthy news or feature story.
At 65, I read the obits more closely than ever, hoping I don’t see any friends or other people I’ve met, especially people I’ve interviewed.
Often, I am moved by what I read. Anyone who fought in a war or served in the military draws immediate respect. The highly decorated engender awe.
People with long careers, however great or humble, provoke more respect. The same is true of those with long marriages.
I came here from a big city. I thought that meant something, and that life would be easier in this smaller, safer place. It didn’t. Life anywhere presents challenges that try us in inconceivable ways.
And everywhere, people meet them.
My obit took days to finish. It was a failure.
It thanked no one for their kindness and sought forgiveness from no one I have hurt.
It lacked color.
I couldn’t figure out how to include the calmness I felt on early summer evenings long ago as I stood in center field at Wasena Park and glanced at Mill Mountain during softball games.
How could I say I loved to fish in the area’s lakes and rivers and hike its trails, but failed to make those activities a priority?
What words would be sufficient to recapture the unforgettable beauty of our Catawba neighborhood or the Christian love from our friends at Shiloh Church?
What about the community spirit present on summer nights while watching, with other parents, our children play baseball or soccer?
The story would not be complete without my confessing that, like many, I thought everyone and everything would last forever, steadily evolving, growing more interesting every day.
How, in our measly obituaries, can we elders impress on our young how quickly it all goes by, and how irretrievably everything changes?
That’s been the hardest part of writing my obituary: calculating what’s been lost, and knowing that, inevitably, more changes lie ahead. Loss is a part of life – but come what may, life has been and is exceedingly good.
On this we should all rely.
– Joe Kennedy