I had very little exposure to death as a child. There was the rare funeral for a grandparent or great-grandparent. I heard the occasional announcement from the pulpit that some elderly church member or shut-in had passed. I said goodbye to a couple of family dogs and the occasional, underfed goldfish. But I didn’t lose friends, read obituaries, or keep up with celebrity deaths. Death was rare in my childhood world, and that was alright by me.
All that has changed. An unpleasant aspect of growing older, I’m finding, is an awareness of death. I’ve now said goodbye to my mom, four grandparents, and a great-grandparent. I’ve learned of the deaths of a dozen classmates, about 5% of my high school graduating class, some who tragically took their own lives. The deaths of some of my favorite musicians and actors continue to pile up. I’ve eulogized a few friends from pulpits and sat through a few dozen funeral services. My wife and I even cowrote a book, The Eulogy, partly based on our experience caring for my dying mom.
More recently, we learned of the passing of Michelle Ashby, a long-time family friend, after her courageous, decades-long battle with cancer. She was a marigold lover, and I’ll be planting one of those in our garden today in her honor.
Last Monday, Michael Polutta, another family friend, died from a heart attack at age 58, while out mowing the grass. Just like that, this man of God was gone, at least in the physical sense. He wasn’t “some really old guy,” although my younger readers might argue that 58 is “getting up there.” He wasn’t out of shape—Michael was a fitness nut known for his CrossFit interval training. He wasn’t doing anything reckless. Just a 58-year-old guy out mowing the lawn.
Deaths aren’t increasing, of course, only my awareness of them. Like wrinkles, heartburn, and a few extra pounds, exposure to death is a part of growing up and growing old. As humans, we all have a terminal illness. None of us are getting out of this world alive.
I was blessed to be able to live-stream Michael’s memorial service this past weekend. Heartbroken family and friends gathered. Beautiful hymns were sung. We listened as various friends and family members stood behind the podium to tell Michael’s story. He had an impact on the world—an impact on people, in ways big and small. He loved God and the church. He loved and cared for his wife and children. He was a devoted friend to many. He was a talented musician who built more than a dozen custom guitars. He loved Palmetto Bible Camp and served there for many decades. Michael took the many talents God gave him, along with a capacity to love, and did something incredible with that. He turned the 58 years God granted him into a masterpiece!
The following day, Janet and I sat at the breakfast table, relaying some of the highlights of Michael’s service to her parents. I said something along the lines of, “You know, I don’t really like the whole eulogy system. Who came up with that? People line up at a memorial service to beautifully honor and pay tribute to the deceased, but he or she is already gone. He can’t hear them. I would love for Michael (or Michelle, or anyone who has passed away) to be able to hear the words spoken at their memorials. I want them to appreciate the impact they had on so many people. Why do we wait until they are dead to lay all that out? That’s a messed-up system. I mean, it’s good for their loved ones to hear all those things, but it would be even cooler for the person who died to feel that love and know that impact before they leave this world. There’s got to be a better system.”
Papa Raymond, my 87-year-old father-in-law, sat across from me, listening to my rant while nibbling on his morning strawberry strudel. He was adorned in solid blue, long-sleeved cotton pajamas, with his cane resting against his chair. With the addition of stripes, he would have passed for an elderly prisoner, perhaps incarcerated for the crime of distributing weekly S’mores without a license.
Like Jesus giving a parable, Papa Raymond cleared his throat and dropped this John 12:43 truth bomb on me:
“It’s not about the praise of men. Our goal is to please God.”
Mic drop.
As Papa digested his last bite of strudel, I digested his words.
“The praise of men.”
Isn’t that what we often focus on? Isn’t that what my eulogy system rant was about?
In 1 John 2:16-17, the apostle John writes, “For all that is in the world-the desires of the flesh and the desires of the eyes and the pride of life-is not from the Father but is from the world. And the world is passing away along with its desires, but whoever does the will of God abides forever.”
The praise of men. The pride of life. To some extent, it affects all of us.
Look at my new big house (or car, or boat, or…)
Have I mentioned my book sales figures lately?
I wonder how many “likes” this social media post or blog will get?
With just the right bikini, in just the right pose, I bet I can go over a million Instagram followers!
Have I not posted a picture of my bulging muscles at the gym recently? Let me fix that.
Pretty sure my casserole was the crowd favorite at the potluck
We’re in Maui! If 200 photos of our adventure aren’t enough, we’ll post more!
Look at our baby/child/teenager/adult and what they accomplished! They’re an honor student! They just got a full ride to college. To help you remember that, I’m getting a bumper sticker!
I’m not knocking all of that. I like to see your vacation photos. I’m happy that your teenager was named Homecoming Queen and glad you shared that. Your green bean casserole was amazing, and you should be proud of it. Sometimes your accomplishments, especially your acts of service, inspire me to be a better person.
What I’m knocking is a tendency by some, or at least by me, to focus more on the praise of men than pleasing God.
I focus more on accomplishing things than living faithfully. As I sip my first cup of coffee in the morning, I rarely ask myself, “What is something amazing I could do for God today?” More often, the focus is on pleasing myself, impressing the boss, satisfying the spouse, or getting the day’s chores accomplished and errands run. God being pleased is too often an afterthought, if thought of at all.
I have no doubt what was most important to Michael and Michelle was not the praise of men, but pleasing God. That’s the kind of people they were. The only words they wanted to hear, and undoubtedly did hear, were, “Well done, good and faithful servant.. Enter into the joy of your lord.”
