the sunday obits
Another Sunday has come and gone, and with it my favorite part of the Sunday paper: the obituaries.
I am not an especially morbid person, preoccupied with death, or otherwise inclined toward the macabre. I love the obituaries because they're all about lives and love. Our newspaper, like many, will run death notices as a public service, but requires family or friends to submit longer obituary text. (I'm pretty sure you also have to pay, which raises a different set of questions about equity and the value of all lives, but I'll leave that aside for the present.) The result of this practice is that Sunday's rear business pages overflow with love and respect for the lives others have lived. Sometimes the diction's kind of funny, and I suppose one could become jaded the twelfth time one is introduced to "the world's best homemaker" on the same Sunday morning -- but the point is, to whoever wrote that obituary, Jean or Bertha or Gladys or Sue was the world's best homemaker. Each of these people meant the world to others.
I'm consistently touched by the litany of moves undertaken, jobs performed, and service bestowed through organizations ranging from the churches of the Portland metro area to the Knights of Pythias. There's sure to be someone -- probably several someones -- born in Nebraska or South Dakota or Kansas. The stories of the Dust Bowl, and post-World War II opportunity, written in the lives of a Vern or a Dave or a Bill. Life's tragedies are indicated in the lists of those who have gone before; the pain of a lost child, or a spouse who died far too young. The selfless work of women, in particular, is on display in memories of PTAs past and church organizations too numerous to count. Christmas cookies and holiday decor, barbecue specialties and woodworking triumphs are recounted with familial pride. Past injustice is made manifest in the stories of proud veterans who left for war from Minidoka. Life's passions endure in requests to honor the Audubon Society or Portland State, civil rights groups or hospitals instead of sending flowers.
I love the notion that we are part of a great cloud of witnesses, a communion of saints that spreads throughout time and space. The Sunday obituaries draw my attention to this reality by giving saints tangible form. These are, quite literally, the "saints, who from their labors rest." Reading their stories inspires me to contribute my own legacy.
I am not an especially morbid person, preoccupied with death, or otherwise inclined toward the macabre. I love the obituaries because they're all about lives and love. Our newspaper, like many, will run death notices as a public service, but requires family or friends to submit longer obituary text. (I'm pretty sure you also have to pay, which raises a different set of questions about equity and the value of all lives, but I'll leave that aside for the present.) The result of this practice is that Sunday's rear business pages overflow with love and respect for the lives others have lived. Sometimes the diction's kind of funny, and I suppose one could become jaded the twelfth time one is introduced to "the world's best homemaker" on the same Sunday morning -- but the point is, to whoever wrote that obituary, Jean or Bertha or Gladys or Sue was the world's best homemaker. Each of these people meant the world to others.
I'm consistently touched by the litany of moves undertaken, jobs performed, and service bestowed through organizations ranging from the churches of the Portland metro area to the Knights of Pythias. There's sure to be someone -- probably several someones -- born in Nebraska or South Dakota or Kansas. The stories of the Dust Bowl, and post-World War II opportunity, written in the lives of a Vern or a Dave or a Bill. Life's tragedies are indicated in the lists of those who have gone before; the pain of a lost child, or a spouse who died far too young. The selfless work of women, in particular, is on display in memories of PTAs past and church organizations too numerous to count. Christmas cookies and holiday decor, barbecue specialties and woodworking triumphs are recounted with familial pride. Past injustice is made manifest in the stories of proud veterans who left for war from Minidoka. Life's passions endure in requests to honor the Audubon Society or Portland State, civil rights groups or hospitals instead of sending flowers.
I love the notion that we are part of a great cloud of witnesses, a communion of saints that spreads throughout time and space. The Sunday obituaries draw my attention to this reality by giving saints tangible form. These are, quite literally, the "saints, who from their labors rest." Reading their stories inspires me to contribute my own legacy.
Comments
Post a Comment