My husband Brad and I attended a memorial service a few weeks ago for a person we hadn’t known well. Between the two of us, we’d probably engaged in fewer than a dozen ten-minute conversations with Dennis in the several years we were acquainted with him. Yet as Brad observed, he always walked away from even the briefest conversation with Dennis feeling lighter and more positive. It seemed important to honor that, and so, on a Saturday morning in early May we slipped into one of the back pews to pay our respects.
As we waited quietly for the service to begin, I read the obituary printed on the inside of the program. I knew Dennis had been a quarterback for the University of Nebraska Huskers back in the 1960s, but I hadn’t known he’d also been drafted by the NFL. Turns out, he attended the University of Nebraska’s College of Dentistry during the NFL off seasons until he was asked by the dean to make a choice between full time school and football. The obituary noted that Dennis chose dentistry and never looked back.
The eulogy offered us further insights into Dennis’ character. We heard, for example, that he had used his dentistry skills to help the less fortunate, a passion that was kindled during multiple mission trips to Honduras.
We also learned that he was the kind of person who sought out those who were suffering. On Sunday mornings, the pastor noted, Dennis always made a beeline directly to the person he knew was going through a tough time. In the midst of Dennis’ own three-year battle with cancer, for example, he regularly visited a young man in the congregation who was undergoing chemotherapy at the same time.
As I listened to the eulogy for Dennis, I couldn’t help but recall the last line of Mary Oliver’s poem, “The Summer Day,” in which she asks, “So tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”
The more I thought about the poem’s question in light of Dennis’ obituary and eulogy, the more I realized Oliver isn’t referring to our professional successes, our awards or our accolades – in other words, the kinds of details that might be listed in an obituary.
With the exception of someone like Oprah, most of us won’t be remembered for our professional achievements. Dennis’ accomplishments as a star college quarterback, as a successful orthodontist with his own practice and even as an NFL football player are important, to be sure, but in the end, those professional accomplishments are mere footnotes in the larger story of his life.
What his colleagues, friends, loved ones, and even acquaintances like Brad and I will remember most about Dennis was who he was as a person.
We will remember his kindness, his gregariousness, his genuine smile.
We will remember his generosity and compassion.
We will remember his solid faith.
We will remember the simple fact that chatting with Dennis, even for just five minutes, always gave us a little more spring in our step.
I think Mary Oliver would agree that Dennis lived his “one wild and precious life” well, not because of the extraordinary things he accomplished, but because of how well he lived the ordinary, largely unseen moments of his one life.
Each of us is allowed the same choice Dennis had. The question is: how will we live our “one wild and precious life,” not just in the extraordinary moments, but in all the ordinary moments in between.
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I really needed to read this right now. I came from a family of great and very unique accomplishments and at this point in my life (older, overweight, tired of the treadmill with not enough time to myself to think) I feel so insignificant and that life is passing me by because I can’t do “more” for God and for others in a more unique way. I think a lot of this is just my pride, which is probably why God has me right, here right now. Thanks for that great eulogy of your friend and for the lesson about living in “ordinary time”.
Oh Laura, I so hear you, friend. That’s exactly how I was feeling when I was sitting in the church pew, and suddenly, listening to the eulogy, I had a revelation: living our ordinary lives as beautifully, generously and grace-fully as we can (even in the smallest, barely noticeable ways) is truly an extraordinary thing. I said to my husband after that memorial service something along the lines of the fact that Dennis lived a pretty ordinary story, and yet there was so much beauty and grace and generosity, even in the ordinary movement of his days.
Reading this today so touched my heart, Michelle. Thank you for sharing the truly important things about Dennis’ life.
Blessings!
I’m so glad it touched you and resonated with you, Martha. It seems Dennis is still quietly giving, even after he has passed from this earth.
Beautiful and encouraging! Thank you!
You are most welcome, Meg – thanks for being an encouraging voice around here. 🙂
Michelle,
You & Brad have so often been “Dennis” in the lives of others. You have reached out to the wounded and isolated people in your life, thank you from one who has experienced those uplifting moments.
With love & gratitude,