MAY 14, 2019 – Today is bright and sunny. That wasn’t the case nine years ago. Dark, thick clouds darkened the day, and a hard rain fell most of the morning and into the afternoon. It was the day of Dad’s funeral. He had played a prominent, positive role in my life, and I was so very, very sad to see him go.
In his final days, I had set about drafting a eulogy. Many people would be attending the funeral, but it was for Dad’s grandchildren that I wanted my words to carry the most meaning. I wanted the next generation to be inspired and motivated by their grandpa’s extraordinary talents and accomplishments; his refinement and civility. Above all, I wanted them to hear the story behind his most memorable statement, spoken to me when I was a know-it-all teenager pontificating about the most important quality in a president (imagine that!). His response: the most important thing in the world is love.
By the time of Dad’s funeral, I’d had many years of public speaking experience. I was not in the least bit nervous about talking in front of a large crowd. The problem was that in reviewing and revising the eulogy silently and in total privacy, I couldn’t get past three or four sentences without breaking down and weeping profusely. It mattered not how many times I tried.
A couple of hours before the funeral, my two sons helped me load the car with remembrance items for a display in the lobby of the church. We then drove through curtains of rain, windshield wipers swishing frenetically. My wife would follow later. I worried how I was going to hold up—or not hold up.
I decided to call upon my sons for advice. “Guys,” I said. “Got any ideas for your dad on how to keep myself together when I’m giving the eulogy?”
The younger, pragmatic son spoke first. He himself had lots of public speaking experience. “What I do,” he said, “is take five, deep, slow breaths just before I get up on stage. That relaxes me, and everything goes well.”
Then the older, reflective son spoke up. “I think you’re asking the wrong question, Dad. What’s wrong with breaking down and crying? It shows that you’re human with a big heart.”
When the service reached the time for the eulogy, I stepped out from the pew and walked toward the chancel lectern. On my way, I took five, deep, slow breaths. By the fifth one, I felt governed by calm. As I pulled the eulogy script from my suit coat pocket, I thought about what it is to be human; what it is to have a heart; what it is to love and be loved. Gone was fear of breaking down, fear of crying out of control.
For the very first time I read—aloud; for my sons and nieces, for everyone present—the entire eulogy but without tears flowing like the pouring, grieving rain.
© 2019 Eric Nilsson
