Paying our final respects

"I don't get no respect!" was the catch-phrase of the late comedian Rodney Dangerfield.

Respect is defined in the dictionary as "a feeling of deep admiration for someone or something elicited by their abilities, qualities or achievements." Aretha Franklin added her own take on the word with her hit R.E.S.P.E.C.T with her rendition of Otis Redding's words, written in 1965.

I think it may be something more.

Respect was a big deal to my parents. We didn't dare sass, for instance. If mom or dad said it, that was the end of it. Even after I was grown and gone, I knew that I owed my parents a certain measure of respect -- honor, if you will -- simply because they were my parents.

The same was, and is, true in Danny's family of origin. When Mom speaks, we listen. We may not always like what we hear, but we honor her by giving ear to her words and consideration of them.

We were blessed with the opportunity to spend a little time with Mom last week as we dealt with the aftermath of the not-unexpected -- but largely unprepared-for -- death of Danny's brother-in-law, Bob.

A funny man, who loved people and so had a very successful career in sales, Bob simply couldn't bring himself to say good-bye -- to anyone, or apparently, to any thing.

Danny's sister called two weeks ago to say that the hospice facility had admitted Bob and he wasn't expected to make it. He had been under hospice care for several months and although his health continued to deteriorate with every crisis, he had always managed to rally. But this episode proved to be too much and early Thursday, Nov. 12, he succumbed and breathed his last.

Danny was at Cathy's side when she said her good-byes and stayed at her side through the day Thursday, leaving Friday morning to pick me up only to turn around and drive us back to Denver where we remained through the memorial service and fellowship late Thursday before we made our way home.

When I say Bob had trouble saying good-bye, I do not exaggerate. As we started the process of clearing out his garage, office and basement, we discovered that he kept everything. Old computer parts, financial records 20 years gone, business envelopes, file folders, miles of coax cable, and tools. In fact, if you're missing a 9/16 wrench, I'm afraid Bob may have had it.

It was an interesting, and exhausting, look at the life of a man we first loved because Cathy loved him and then loved because he was undeniably lovable. Through the things left behind we discovered his deep love of music. He was a drummer, and a music teacher who also repaired many musical instruments throughout the years, which may explain the many odd, unidentifiable parts interspersed between defunct toasters and broken vacuum cleaners.

Through the people he left behind, we discovered his sense of humor, his commitment to family and his desire to be all things to all people.

More than anything, as we sorted through Bob's many and varied possessions, we tried to exercise respect. Respect for Bob, for his property and for his children, who were busy making arrangements and learning with each passing day, how to live now that he had died. Our comfortable lives here in the quiet corner of McCook were only temporarily abandoned. Their lives, on the other hand, will never be the same, for when someone close to you dies, your life changes in profound ways, especially when that person's life is closely interwoven in the day-to-day fabric of your life.

In paying their final respects, Bob's friends and family had the opportunity to honor his life, to give voice to the impact he had while he lived. Through it all, the memorial service, the clean-up, Bob's penchant for keeping something "just in case," his inability to say good-bye or even to prepare to die, underscored a truth that hides just under the surface of the hearts of man.

Death is not natural, no matter the skill and ability of the undertaker to make it seem as though it is.

We are not created to die. We are created to live. To love. To touch. To teach. To create. To repair that which is broken, to restore that which is lost. We were created to live and never die.

Death entered when sin entered and now all of us are trapped in finite bodies, subject to injury, illness and decay. Yet we live, sometimes in spite of illness, injury and decay. We cling to life with all we have because we were created for life.

This is the great wrong Jesus set to right when he conquered death, rising on the third day.

I came away from the entire experience with new respect. Respect for those who cling to life so desperately when death would seem preferable to their unrelenting suffering; respect for those who bring comfort to the living by paying their respects to the dead; and most of all, an even deeper respect and ever deepening gratitude for all that Jesus accomplished on the cross. He knew his Father was, and is, the God of the living, and, respecting him and respecting all that he had created, Jesus set his face like flint toward Jerusalem and the cross at Golgotha, determined to rescue each of us from certain, though wholly unnatural, death.

"I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even if he dies." John 11:25 (NAS)