I started to update my status by saying:

“Of all the possible writing assignments that I could have, the one I hate the most is writing obituaries.”

But I stopped, because that isn’t true. I don’t hate writing obits.

Last night, I sat at a table with Cath and friends, and we turned a love one’s two sentence “she was born here and then died there” obit  into truer reflection of a life. A dim reflection, but more than just dates.

I listened and typed as we told stories, looked at pictures, heard from her parents, tried to answer “what would she want to be known for” and firmly stated what she did not want to be known for. (In this case, she hated being called an “inspiration.”)

In short, we celebrated a life that had real meaning for us.

That kind of writing is therapeutic; a bit cathartic. It weighs the realness of loss against the truth of the gift brought on by sharing life with another person.

What I do hate is that there is ever a need to put into words such things; that I would have to point someone to an essay on paper rather than just point to the person.

I like to think that, on occasion, I am good with words. But nothing I write will ever beat:

“You want to know about Ruth? Well, she’s right over there. Go spend some time with her – then you’ll see what I see.”

Yeah, that can’t be beat.

Just my thoughts,



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