Today, I went to my Great Uncle Jim's funeral. I went expecting lots of tears, but found laughter. I love hearing that he adored me since I adored him, and because I adored him so, I wanted to write something for him. And today, I got to share these words at his funeral, and as small as that seems, it felt good sharing who he was, and what he has been to me.
For Jim,
It’s hard to write the right words. To make a person like Uncle Jim unforgettable. To make words do him justice.
You would have had to know him to understand the kind of love and joy he had. You would have had to see his cheeks turn red in laughter- sometimes, in blushing- to fully understand his sweet heart.
I remember, even now, his squinted eyes and that wide, childish grin. I picked on him often about his hat collection, that Alabama football hat in particular, just to get a grin out of him.
We never said much. We talked about nursing home staff, his “neighbors”, the weather, his picture frames on the walls, his snacks he kept hidden in drawers.
But we understood each other, him and me.
He knew I loved him,just like I knew he loved me,and I never needed to talk about more than the peanut butter crackers, or the cokes, or his tendency to win over all of those hearts down the nursing home hallways, to know it.
Some people teach you how to tie your shoelaces as a kid, some teach you how to ride a bike, some teach you arithmetic; Uncle Jim taught me about happiness. It came from deep within, some place that I could only see in his smiles and laughs, but each time I saw it, I was thankful for it, and I truly knew what “peace that surpasses all understanding” looked like.
I never heard any of his stories. I never heard any of his dreams. We never sat and talked about God or the Heavens or the purpose of life. But even so, I feel like we did. I feel it, because I saw it in his face. He didn’t hoard his love, he gave it away, and in giving it away, he gave of himself freely.
I can’t explain it right because you have to witness that kind of love and selflessness to understand it.
I guess what I’m trying to say is Uncle Jim, by the world’s standards, didn’t do great things. His name won’t be in a history book, kids won’t talk about him generations from now, and those who loved him most, when gone, will take him with them when they leave. But Jim lived a great life. And most of us are waiting to witness something great. We travel, and read novels, and visit
museums, and watch plays, and study art, and meet people, and have conversations, all in the hopes of experiencing something beyond ourselves, to feel something beyond ourselves.
But down a hallway, on the right, in a simple, white room where peanut butter crackers were stuffed in a drawer and pictures of family smiled down from their frames, there was a wonderful, kind, gentle, loving Uncle named Jim, who within his own heart, and by the grace of God, knew greatness and contentment that no novel or museum could compare to. He overflowed with it. And he gave all of his greatness away- the joy and love- to those who were willing to sit on his bed, talk about the weather, and laugh with him.
