Funeral truths, fields, and finance
The power of our legacy exists in the complexity of our real stories.
People don’t like talking about money. Most individuals don’t like discussing death, either.
Talking about money at a funeral? Nobody does that. Right?
Think again.
Twenty-twenty was the year we all started doing new things. In the last twelve short and long months, I have said and done things I couldn't have conceived in my 2019 imagination. My list of novel pandemic experiences is long—many I will remember forever. One weird thing I will never forget was delivering a eulogy at my late grandfather’s Zoom funeral.
My grandfather lived in an era and was enveloped in a cultural surround where people were unacquainted with the term "emotional intelligence." Scandanavian farmers didn’t sit at the table drinking coffee talking about their feelings. They swallowed until there was no steaming black left in the cup and got back to work. It is not to say that these men – this generation – or that which came before – did not feel. They did. There were plenty of thoughts and emotions that flew around in tractor cabs while digging dirt. Most of these sentiments were never spoken out loud.
It's interesting for me, being a psychologist in a family. Sometimes I am unconsciously complicit in the homeostatic complexity of my own family system. Other times, I see the unspoken rules our family creates and say something about them. At my grandfather's funeral, I opted for the latter. I played my role in our family. I spoke as the eldest granddaughter. I also took courageous liberty in my address to be disruptive, push the envelope, and bend some rules. I did what a psychologist and loving family member does: I took risks and spoke hard truths aloud.
On the day of my grandfather's funeral, I explained, "As a psychologist, part of what I do is help individuals access language and put words to their thoughts and feelings. Labeling our emotions and communicating them directly to others helps people get what they need in life. It improves relationships. I won't put words in a dead man's mouth. I don't pretend to speak for my grandfather, but for three decades I watched this man closely. Carefully. I understood that there were things he would probably never be able to say. But they were things that people desperately needed to hear. So today, I am saying some of them out loud.”
Here is part of the story I shared, from the start:
If you had told me a year ago that I would be attending my late grandfather's funeral today via Zoom I might have looked at you like you lost your mind. But it is 2020. And here we are. I am Vernon's oldest granddaughter. Perhaps today – in my final tribute, my last gift to this man – my words may prove to be more powerful than actual physical presence—his and mine.
We all leave this world different than it was when we entered it. We color it. Change it with our choices. Our character. Our love. Our work. Our words. Our silence. We mark the world as we move through it.
Here’s the thing about speeches made at funerals: they all kind of sound the same. They tend to be filled with similar phrases and positive descriptors. Niceties. And there is nothing wrong with that. We smile. We cry. We eat hotdish. We go home. But I think we kind of get it wrong at the end – in our grief. Not with the scalloped potatoes but with what we don’t say. We water down truth and play it safe. Something important gets lost when we neglect nuance. I believe that the power of our legacy —of our lives—exists in the complexity of our real stories. The victories and the messes. Telling the truth of the actual is where the power of what we leave is really at.
In life, and even more in death, we split people to make them easier to think about. Good. Bad. The thing is, that's not how humanity works. In all of us, there is a mix of amazing and awful. It requires a lot of effort to hold both sides simultaneously. At funerals, we talk about the amazing. But maybe it would be better if we talked more with grace about the totality of a person's life—their truth.
Today, truth is the place from which I want to speak. You see, in honoring my grandfather, I want to say something that's going to stick. Not a story that sounds like another volume in the series of funeral sentiments shared about hundreds of hardworking Scandanavian farmers who have also laid in caskets at the front of this church. Vernon Jerome Pearson deserves something better, something more. So do you.
We talk about what we remember about those who have passed. When I discuss grandpa with my children, I will describe to my babies his booming, deep laughter. His large, strong hands – calloused by decades of holding shovels, digging fences, and carrying five-gallon pails. I will try to paint a word picture of the sight of him smiling, holding a face card on his forehead in the middle of a game of Up and Down the River. I will laugh and start singing, "Playing with the Queen of Hearts," like my aunts often do. The red lady royal was probably his card. It sure was in life—Grandma was the Queen of Hearts. That woman was the trump card nothing could beat. He knew it. For that, I am glad.
To talk about my grandpa, you would be remiss to leave out the part about how he loved his work. A lot. Farming was his identity. His purpose and focus. Grandpa had a will of steel. He was strong. Determined. These things are admirable, and at times were his Achilles heel. The man was unstoppable. I also think that maybe he was scared. Terrified even. What if he didn't have the thing that made him feel the most confident, capable, and competent? What then?
To prepare for today, I looked through the catalog of my most cherished memories of grandpa. Something struck me. I took my favorite mental snapshots when he was willing to sit. To stop and slow down. Ironically, this is something he struggled to do.
Connection happens on the couch and at the kitchen table. Let’s spend more time there. Today is a reminder that at the end of the day, the end of the road – there is a small circle of people who matter the most when we’re gone. Let us be judicious in protecting the time, energy, and attention we consistently expend and invest in their direction.
I believe the part of Grandpa that loved and cared so deep would want not a simple copy-paste-carry forward adoption of his blueprint. If possible, he’d want something better. For me. For all of us. I think in some ways that’s why he did what he did, how he did it, for so long. He was doing all that he could for each of us the best and only ways he knew how.
In looking at his life and examining our engagement with him, he experientially taught us lessons that can serve as a true gift as we choose how to live the days granted to us walking this earth. We are promised nothing beyond today. We may be afforded ample time and many trips around the sun like grandpa was. We may not. Let us choose how we will use each minute we are given with care, purpose, and intention.
People don't discuss uncomfortable truths at funerals. They also don't talk about money. Come to think of it, people don't discuss money many other places either. It's uncomfortable, and we tell ourselves it’s not polite. The truth is my grandfather died a very rich man. In the end, he couldn't take a single dime with him. I think the thing he'd tell you that what truly made him wealthy in life were the people sitting in these pews.”
People often don’t like thinking about death because the topic triggers fear. Many people avoid talking about money because it activates anxiety.
Why did I talk about money at my grandfather’s funeral? Because everyone in that room had been impacted, in some way, by his relationship with work and money. He didn’t want to talk about retirement. He struggled to plan for the succession of the family farm. I think he was, on some level, terrified. Farming was his identity – he felt most competent and in control in the cab of a tractor. Work was one of his defenses against anxiety. It was how he coped. It provided purpose. He was trying to figure out how to leave a legacy. How to demonstrate love.
My grandfather doesn’t represent an idiosyncratic case study or exception to a rule. He was a human. Trying to figure out how to live, love, and contribute the best way he could.
And he did.
Our family’s story is many families’ story.
My grandfather left behind a lot of money. It matters little.
What truly will endure is his heart. The investment that meant the most was his time.
To honor him is to remember those things and live accordingly.
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