These Accolades of the Deceased Need to Cease
My grandmother used to say everybody puts their britches on one leg at a time. Had she lived long enough to witness modern obituaries, she probably would have added that eventually somebody else puts them on you. Whether you’re a fourth-generation sorority pledge or the fourth generation living in the same single-wide trailer, everybody’s septic tank smells about the same. Death has a way of leveling things out. Take your town philanthropist and your town drunk. Put them side by side in matching caskets, both barely cold and headed toward the same patch of dirt, and suddenly they hold equal rank on what I can only assume is God’s Sub-Level Advisory Board.
I write pre-planned obituaries from time to time. It started after my daddy died. Some people find that morbid. I don’t. There is a sweetness in sitting with someone during the final stretch of life and listening to them talk about the years behind them. Most people aren’t nearly as interested in discussing death as the rest of us imagine. Death is unfamiliar territory. Life is what they know. Life is where the stories are. Life is where they find comfort.
I usually ask about favorite memories, proud moments, old friends, embarrassing mistakes, and the people they loved most. One of my favorite interviews was with a gentleman who had been married over fifty years. I asked him the best day of his life. He thought for a minute and said, “Well, this side of salvation, my wife, and my children, it’d probably be the day I hit a hole-in-one.” As it turns out, none of his children knew he’d ever played golf. Forty years earlier he’d been on a business trip to Florida, borrowed a set of clubs, and somehow managed to hit a hole-in-one. He talked about that golf shot with more enthusiasm than some men discuss the birth of their children. After his family read the obituary draft, they spent the rest of the evening listening to the story for the first time. A few months later they sent me a Christmas card. That’s why I do it.
So no, I don’t think obituary writing is morbid. What may be slightly morbid is the fact that I sit around reading obituaries for entertainment.
Which brings me to the obituary that still has my panties in a wad.
Now before anybody drags me behind the woodshed, let me say this gentleman appears to have been a remarkable man. He was successful in business, active in his church, devoted to his family, respected in his profession, and by every available account a good citizen. The issue isn’t the man. The issue is that somewhere around paragraph twelve I forgot he was dead.
The obituary started innocently enough. He graduated high school. Then college. Then another program. Then another leadership forum. Then came the boards, committees, advisory councils, professional associations, honorary societies, alumni organizations, and enough civic appointments to occupy three reasonably ambitious people. He was president of this, chairman of that, vice president of something else, and chairman emeritus of another thing I’d never heard of but assume required at least two luncheons per month and a nametag.
By the middle of the obituary I wasn’t reading about a deceased gentleman. I was reading the annual report of a regional bank.
Then came the awards. Lord have mercy, the awards. This man had received so many plaques that I began wondering if his family needed a separate storage building. He was businessman of the year, alumnus of the year, recipient of distinguished service awards, industry awards, leadership awards, and what appeared to be awards for previously receiving awards. Somewhere in heaven Saint Peter was probably looking through the file thinking, “Good grief, did we miss one?”
The travel section nearly finished me off. Europe. Australia. New Zealand. Russia. China. South America. The Caribbean. Disney World. Lake houses. Country clubs. Hunting clubs. Golf clubs. By that point I wasn’t sure if I was reading an obituary or applying for a travel rewards credit card.
When I finally reached the end, I realized something. The only part I truly remembered was a brief sentence saying he loved his wife, his children, and his grandchildren.
That’s the part that mattered.
Nobody stands around a graveside talking about who chaired the Interstate Regional Strategic Planning Committee. Nobody wipes away tears remembering a man’s service on the Advisory Council for the Advisory Council. We remember who showed up. Who loved well. Who laughed loudly. Who bought breakfast. Who taught us to fish. Who sat beside us when life got hard.
I have no doubt this gentleman lived an extraordinary life. I have no doubt his family misses him deeply. I simply wonder if we’ve forgotten what an obituary is supposed to be. It isn’t a résumé. It isn’t a trophy case. It isn’t a LinkedIn profile with a funeral attached. It’s the final story we tell about a human being.
And eventually every one of us, whether we spent our lives running corporations or running from bill collectors, winds up occupying the same amount of real estate. Rich or poor, famous or forgotten, chairman or town drunk, we all become sub-level.
When that day comes, I hope somebody remembers more than my accomplishments. I hope they remember I loved my people. Everything else is just committee work.
Southern Providential 