Twenty-two years ago, he asked me to be best man at his wedding. I had experience. I’d served as a best man once before.
“Glad to,” I said then.
This week, he said I’ll deliver the eulogy at his funeral. That was a first.
And, no. He didn’t ask.
“You’ll do the eulogy,” he declared matter-of-factly, as if we’d discussed the topic before. We hadn’t.
I should have probed, but his declaration startled me. So I chuckled.
He’d retired 10 days earlier. Perhaps one milestone prompted thoughts of another, although that idea occurred to me only later. Could be true, though.
Our conversation, like a bee skipping from blossom to blossom, soon moved to other topics. But his announcement has lingered in memory, fidgeting there in the spaces between thoughts.
I don’t expect to write or deliver a eulogy soon. Gawd, I hope not. Perhaps he’ll do mine. Only one can, of course.
Yet now the expectation awaits, both compliment and burden, swaddled in uncomfortable and conflicting emotions. I wish he hadn’t given me this task. I’m glad he did.
I spoke at my paternal grandmother’s funeral. She had asked me to. She used the word “preach,” which there was no way I could do. A minister she chose presided. But I offered my remarks and tried to capture the wonder of her and the beauty of her 92 years on earth. My heart provided the words, which I carefully scripted, but my mouth barely could get them out.
But isn’t it an honor to have been asked?
Yes, an honor. And you described the honor so eloquently here. If duty calls, I hope I do as well as you did, Steve.