Over the past few days there has been a seemingly inordinate number of deaths in my little circle. I am thinking of three passings in particular: Two hit close to home, and the third one provoked me with a fresh perspective of how we handle the death of heroes.
Unless you got hit on the head with a rock at the recent Tim Hortons Brier in Edmonton, you will be aware that Hugo Chavez, late president of Venezuela, passed away after a long battle with cancer.
Then there's a young woman, whom I won't name at this point. She too passed away after fight with cancer—with operative word “fight.”
Finally, Stompin' Tom Connors left the stage for the final time, you might say.
Hugo Chavez was a champion to many in the world, representing what a poor boy can become if he really tries hard. Wealth and education, hallmarks of most politicians, were missing from his political resume. Strange study he was: He apparently was the people's president--a populist leader, if there ever was one. But he also had strong despotic, anti-democracy philosophies, hobnobbing with many leftist, totalitarian regimes throughout the world.
My plain uneasiness with his death is that he and I were the same age. That may be the only thing we had in common, but mutual age is a link, nonetheless. Such mortality is a part of life—and death, if you will—but especially only hits home when someone your age passes away.
The next death, that of the young woman, daughter, wife, and mother—let's go ahead and call her “Janet”--is even closer to home. I knew her when we both lived in Kamloops, BC. She used to babysit my kids; I hung out with her father when we were both in the Kamloops Ministerial Association. When I first started teaching, I actually taught her a few times as a sub.
Unlike Hugo who was peer, Janet was young enough to be my daughter. She had a full life ahead of her. She had fought this cancer thing through unconventional ways, to her credit, with moderate success. She was an active follower of God, and in the minds of some, that should have meant that nothing bad should happen to her.
Well, it did and now there is a whole network of grieving loved ones left behind.
Finally, there's Stompin' Tom Connors. Never personally knew him, but have heard one of his songs many times—that ubiquitous ditty that has been an iconic part and parcel of the hockey rinks for decades. What little I heard of his music, I didn't really care for. Yet there was something simple and sincere about his singing style, and that won him many fans.
What a timely segue to my primary point today! As the torrent of tributes pour in for Mr. Connors--on the airwaves, newsprint, and Internet--I am both baffled and bemused at its timing. Now that he has passed on, everyone and his desk-mate, it seems, is singing (no pun intended) Stompin' Tom's praises. Obviously, one can't give a eulogy (in the truest sense of that word) when one is alive, can they?
But why not?
You see “eulogy” is roughly translated “good or well word.” Funerals are always marked by eulogies, taking time to spell out the many wonderful qualities they had. I've always found it strange that we rarely do this for them when they are alive.
Wouldn't it be better if that person you think so much of heard how much you loved them, how much they have influenced your life for good, how much better the world is because they have contributed to it—before they die? Why do we wait to honour them after they have passed away before we speak well about (= eulogize) them?
We all have a desperate need to be loved, appreciated, and desired. Wouldn't a lot of grief—for both listener and hearer—be averted if we took the time and effort to let that special person know what we thought of them today, even next week?
Flowers of praise and bouquets of honour are best delivered when people can smell, feel, and enjoy them.
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