I once heard about a man in a large city who made a daily habit of reading the obituary column. Each day, he would dress up in his finest clothes and attend as many funeral services as he could. Usually, he would seek older people to honor with his presence. Most often, that would mean that others in attendance were so few, they would be swallowed up by the enormity of a huge cathedral or church.
The services were usually short. After all, old Uncle Willy had outlived most of humankind who had known him, or he had been such a recluse for the last 35 years that those gathered were more interested in the size of any potential endowment than in wishing him well on his last journey. The same situation would stand for old Aunt Matilda. She was always a little “dotty,” at best, but her behavior had become so bizarre in recent years, the relatives really avoided her. Still they hoped against hope that she had remembered them in her will.
The man who visited church services was there on a mission. He would wander into the building a few minutes late, and creep into a back pew, waiting for just the right moment to spring into action. He had a deep voice, one that would resonate throughout the cavernous interior, echoing better than an opera singer whose voice has been magnified.
When the service was complete, he would leap to his feet. He would begin to speak, slowly at first, and then with more conviction. He would point out that he had been a dear friend of the deceased. He would recount the person’s finer attributes, and say that everyone in attendance should be aware of the marvelous and wonderful, if not astounding accomplishments that the person had kept hidden.
He would emphatically state that the kind soul had founded an orphanage, had purchased Christmas toys for the “needy,” or would impart whatever other tall tale came to mind.
By the time he finished speaking, those listening would be in complete awe of the feats of their deceased acquaintance or loved one, and then the man would simply rush out of the church. He had no need to hobnob with those left behind to grieve or not grieve! He had gone out of his way to validate someone’s life by ascribing to them more success than they ever accomplished in life. In so doing, he had performed a worthy task. Doing these daily acts became his reason to live.
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There are some inherent lessons to be learned from the story. First of all, even though the back pew visitor was, in essence, fabricating stories, he was doing so for a noble purpose. He felt justified in his quixotic quest to attribute significance to every life, especially those forgotten, abandoned souls.
Perhaps the true message of the story is that we should honor people while they are still present. We should seek to know about the loves, the wishes, and the successes of our loved ones, instead of waiting for someone else to tell us about their triumphs, real or imagined, after the person is no longer present.
To me, it seems that the man who constantly showed up was doing so out of love. The end result is that the person who had died was elevated in the minds of the funerals attendees by the man’s faux esteem for the deceased party. Too bad that the timing of the accolades is that they occurred only on the last day of the person’s earthly presence.
Now, dear reader, I will leave you with a question. Did the end justify the means?
Patricia Cummings
Though the details and the retelling of this story are my own, the original story, either real or imagined, is one that I read or heard, some time ago. Unfortunately, I have no recollection as to who set forth the story line. If I knew, I would certainly provide more information. Anyone is free to contact me at pat@quiltersmuse.com, if said source is known. Thanks.
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