I’ve been asked to preside at a Memorial Service for the Rev. Eugene Kester, a mentor, colleague and friend. I was honored, while at the same time, had a moment of concern whether it was “too soon.” Then I remembered that I am really good at this part of the job, having had life experiences that magnify my understanding of the need for comfort, hope, and solace at the time of death. I have done harder things, numerous times, so I said yes.
This I know; the family, children and grandchildren, will be sharing memories, telling stories, offering life lessons from their beloved. There will be tears and laughter. There will be remembrances of a faith-filled life, prayers, the reading of scripture, the singing of favorite hymns, and grand music on the organ he loved so much. We will be in the church where I ended my active ministry, with Gene seated in the pew, supporting my ministry. The congregation will have folks from the church in Renton where we have common history: Gene appointed there from 1985 until his retirement in 1990, Larry and I together there from 1995 to 2003. All of this will provide affirmation that the Circle of Life continues unbroken.
As I anticipate the day (which will also include a wedding and a charity auction/dinner, if I get the timing right), I can hear the words, “I didn’t know that ...” When our son John spoke about his father at Larry’s memorial service, he said, “Now that my father is dead, I realize I didn’t really know him.” I was surprised, and my heart felt sad in that moment, for John was one of a handful of folks present who had known Larry longer than I had. There were friends from Larry’s military days in Germany, who greeted John at his birth. There were a few colleagues who first welcomed Larry to the Northwest forty one years ago. They may have been saying the same thing. But for his son, whose entire 46 years were shaped and influenced by his dad, to still not know him, it seemed unfortunate. He was a good person to know. He was also a complex, slightly flawed, somewhat emotionally repressed person, reticent to share about himself, protective of his tender spots. After that moment passed, I realized how little any of us can really know and understand another human being. How most of us protect our core realities, keep a few secrets, nurse some ancient hurts, want the world to see our best selves always, and sometimes only our best selves. Families often know better, and forgive anyway.
In the months and days leading up to Larry’s death, we gathered frequently. We held one another in love. I held fast to this hope for him (from the pen of Raymond Carver):
“And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved of the earth.”
