In my family, we give top rate eulogies. It’s something we excel at, something we take very seriously. It all started in 2008, when my daughter, Chynna passed away unexpectedly, at 16. My oldest son, 20 at the time, asked if he could speak at her memorial service. He didn’t want to present the “meat” of the eulogy. He just wanted to say some things that were weighing heavily on his heart. So, he requested I support his wish to speak and to choose a song that would play afterward. He wanted his words to be a surprise of sorts. In other words, he didn’t want to give anyone editing rights. Since I wasn’t in a position to use my thinking brain in that moment, I agreed. “Go for it,” I said. It was an incredibly good decision. He told the story of a time when his only sister celebrated a birthday. He didn’t have the money to spend on a gift, or even a card, but he had a great idea. He called his cousin, who was learning to play the guitar, and asked what songs he knew. “I’m working on that song by Poison,” said the cousin. So, they practiced, secretly. After she blew out the birthday candles during a family only weekday birthday party, the kind you have when you’re a teenager and everyone is busy with sports practices here and drama rehearsals there and you are lucky if you all walk through the same room at the same time on a given evening, he sang. After his rendition of “Every Rose Has It’s Thorn” ended, a sweet girl clasped her hands in delight and gave both the singing brother and the guitar playing cousin a standing ovation. He told a rapt audience that she proclaimed it to be the best gift ever bestowed on her. Then the actual Poison song played in the church. Cue tears. This led to many speeches my eldest son has given over the years. He’s a sought-after best man due, in part, to his amazing toasts. Dillan Zmolik can entertain.
When my father passed away four years ago, two of my sons had something prepared. There’s that moment when the presiding pastor asks the assembly if anyone has words to say about the deceased. This time, I spoke. This was my father, after all. I wanted him to be more than just an older guy who died, more than a WWII veteran, more than a child of the Great Depression, more than one of the rare people left who was born during prohibition. I wanted everyone to understand what life was like when a great man, like my father, was in your midst. “See, here’s how it felt,” I willed my words to explain. And, like my kid, I used music to convey that, starting my speech with lyrics from a Bob Wills song. Then, Dill told the infamous story about the blue bicycle. Then, Daniel talked about his grandfather’s love of a Mrs. Baird’s cinnamon roll and his demand for zero bodily noises at the dinner table. Between the three of us, we crafted a well-rounded picture of a great man: intelligent, wise, loving, and hysterically funny. Time has told me this: when you lose something beautiful, it feels good to explain that beauty to others. Actually, it’s out of your control. How can you not try and convey that emotion? The people, they just have to know.
In February, as we prepared to say good-bye to my mother, I didn’t wait for the boys to ask me for the opportunity to speak. I flat out told them they would. “Start thinking about what you want to say,” I directed. “Compare notes with each other so you both don’t walk up there talking about your grandmother missing 1st gear in her F-150 stick shift and spraying all of your friends in the parent pick up line with gravel.” That is, incidentally, a fantastic story. Daniel was first at bat that day. By the time he finished, I wondered if I would have a voice left at all. I was crying so hard, the snot bubbles were big enough to have me thankful to be in the very front row, away from public eyes. Grown men should not be allowed to cry when they speak in earnest. It brings me to my knees. So, next, in Dillan fashion, my eldest boy whipped out his bullet points and got to the meat of his speech. He started with an introspective look into my mother’s obsession with John Wayne, a topic we all mentioned. But, he ended with a parable that summed up his grandmother’s essence, her immense pride in being a strong woman. He spoke of innumerable times in his life when he needed help finding something in her presence. “Grandma, I can’t find my ___.” Insert one of the following: pencil, yo-yo, Ninja Turtle action figure, wallet, car keys, etc. Her response was classic mom. “Well, Dill, are you looking like a man, or are you looking like a woman? See, a man just looks at something. But, a woman, a good woman, can look through it, over it, around it. She can probably conjure it up out of thin air. So, go back and look one more time before I have to get involved. But, this time, look like a woman.” May we all absorb the God-given powers of my mother’s vision this week.
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