I write eulogies. Specifically, I write only for men who are now departed. And when I do this, I make people cry at funerals.
I think that people should cry at funerals. Every person, and each life, deserves the honor of having friends, family, and acquaintances shed tears over what that individual meant to this group, and a solitary tear streaming down a smooth cheek, or tear-filled eyes, is the most touching way to pay tribute to a life remembered-a life not forgotten.
I also think that when people come to a funeral they want desperately to cry. They are filled with the sadness of thinking of living without the person who is now inside the coffin at the church altar. But I also think they cry out of fear and apprehension of the time of their own passing. No matter how unpleasant parts of life may become-and none of us is immune to the occasional valleys of our existence-all of us would choose life over death. Death exists, I feel, to ensure that we understand life’s importance, and when someone dies, it’s the least we can do to remember that life and its significance.
Of course, given the solemnity of a funeral, it’s not hard to make people cry. From the time that they receive the news of a person passing, to the moment they enter the church, synagogue, or funeral home, they are poised to cry, and in most cases have already given into that inevitable emotional inertia. If they haven’t succumbed to crying over this loss by then, when they listen to one of my eulogies, they will certainly be moved to tears. When I write a eulogy for someone to give-and it’s always for a grandfather, father, husband, or son-I’m just offering them a hand that helps the congregation take that necessary next step toward achieving what they want at the funeral, what the man deserves, to remember this special man and to pay homage to that life by crying over its loss.
I remember when I wrote and delivered my first eulogy, at my father’s funeral. I was nonplussed with knowing how to craft this final good-bye. Of course, I could allow the priest at Dad’s church to offer remarks, but although my father had gone to this church for decades, I realized that the priest had little knowledge of who my dad was, beyond the cursory, processional handshake after each Sunday Mass. I also wanted to avoid the predictable platitudes of God, heaven, “being in a better place” that I knew my father didn’t necessarily embrace. No, I wanted someone to tell everyone about my father, what he meant to me and the rest of our family, how celebrated was his life, and, yes, why we all should cry because we will miss him. He lived eighty-one good years out of eighty-two, and his priest could never capture the measure of Dad’s passing.
As in life, men are too often misrepresented in death, and the funerals that I have attended were filled with predictable male clichés. Strength, courage, provider, hard worker, a bit more strength and courage-those were the typical descriptions of the men who obviously touched people with more than their biceps and ability to provide life’s essentials. What about his heart that broke for others, the tenderness that allowed him to fall in love and melt when his children entered the room, the emotional man who naturally cried when happy or sad? When I decided to take up the mantle of allowing families to honor these special men through my words, it was these images I wanted to convey.
Writing for a man and to divulge that man’s truth takes both heart and intellect. When I form the words that end up as a eulogy I lead with my heart, but use my brain to write a personal tribute that honors, respects, and is a concise reflection of not just that man’s life, but also the spirit that inhabited his existence. And when I speak to friends and family about the man who died, the meaning of his life and the impact of his death, I’m not after a blow-by-blow sequence of his life. I am not a biographer, but rather one who captures memories, impressions, emotions, and feelings and turns them into words-words that will make everyone cry; trust me. That’s what I did with my dad’s eulogy. I related jokes, funny and touching memories of his life as a World War II soldier, husband, and father. And for the last time, I brought him to life. -PAUL KIDWELL
