The people who know such things are saying we have reached the peak beauty of these dying leaves. Autumn has come and is now nearly gone. The days darken. I rake the leaves and my children disappear into that pile of death. Our dog Winnie runs happily through the woods, looking for lost things, her feet crunch-crunch-crunching.
This is happiness.
* * * * *
Yesterday I sat at the back of a church during a funeral and became an observer of grief, not untouched by the sadness. My college roommate’s father had passed away, and as the deceased’s children spoke about him, shared their memories of him, laughed and cried and groaned through this passing, I couldn’t help but wonder.
Grief is a deep, deep place.
What will my own children say about me when I die? What stories will they remember? Which of my eccentricities will remain as memories, essentially going down as legend among my grandchildren, great-grandchildren, great-great-grandchildren? Will one of them, in the midst of their speech about me, bend at the waist in sadness, overcome? Will they laugh through tears?
What will they say about me?
“When I was a kid, your grandpa sure did love music.”
“When I was a kid, your grandpa couldn’t stand it when we got too noisy at the dinner table.”
“When I was a kid, I’d always find your grandpa writing in his office. He’d always stop what he was doing and talk with me about my day.”
“When I was a kid, grandpa never let us in the office while he was writing.”
Which of these will my kids say about me?
At the very end of the service, a young man went up to the front of the church and stood behind the podium. He nervously adjusted the beanie perched on his head. He decided not to say untying, then decided, no, he would go ahead. He wasn’t sure what to say, only that he wanted to say something, and went on to tell a story about how when he was at his darkest moments, he called this man, his grandfather, a man he called Papa, a man now gone. And his grandfather listened. No matter how dark the place he was in. No matter the decisions he had made. His Papa would listen. He would tell him not to be so hard on himself. He would tell him not to give up.
What will those who we leave behind say about us? That we were hard on them? That we had high expectations? That we loved them deeply for who they are? That we told them not to give up?
* * * * *
From the funeral I drove back home, an hour or so, straight to two parent-teacher conferences. We sat in these adorable elementary school classrooms and, while the autumn sun set outside, caught up with our kids’ teachers about how they’re doing.
From the funeral of an 80-year-old man to the progress report of a 6- and 8-year-old. From people talking about a life lived to people talking about lives barely begun.
And I was reminded of the quote from one of my new favorite books, This is Happiness:
“It was a condensed explanation, but I came to understand him to mean you could stop at, not all, but most of the moments of your life, stop for one heartbeat and, no matter what the state of your head or heart, say ‘This is happiness,’ because of the simple truth that you were alive to say it.”
Indeed.
At a funeral. At a conference. Walking through the fall leaves.
This is happiness.
* * * * *
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Thank you, Shawn. I always love your thoughts on death. They will sit with me as I go to a funeral today and then return home to my own five year old and the mundane beauties and challenges of parenthood.
I love this. Thank you for sharing.