I received an email from Lily’s preschool on Saturday morning with contents I hope I never see again. It informed all parents that one of Lily's schoolmates, a five-year-old boy, had passed away after a car accident. He was in a different age group and attended on alternate days from Lily, so we never met him, but the news was tragic nonetheless. The preschool director sent another email yesterday morning, sharing ways to support this boy’s grieving parents. I followed a link to a memorial page and read the father’s reminiscences about his son. They were warm and rambling, not merely describing his son’s personality but recalling some of his daily habits and favorite things, like a particular pair of pajamas that became way too small. (1)
As part of my studies, I read several essays by the great eighteenth-century writer Samuel Johnson, and in one of these, he argues that biography is the most worthy form of writing, for it most strongly stimulates our human sympathy and our capacity to learn from examples. A good biography, he says, is not a mere sequence of important events or a catalog of accomplishments; it is, instead, a Life: a story or sketch which displays a man as he truly is--thinking, feeling, and behaving in certain ways. Too often, he says, writers “imagine themselves writing a Life when they exhibit a chronological Series of Actions or Preferments; and so little regard the Manners and Behaviour of their Heroes, that more Knowledge may be gained of a Man’s real Character, by a short Conversation with one of his Servants, than from a formal and studied Narrative...” (2)
How poignantly a father’s informal eulogy for his child illustrates Johnson’s point. A young child’s biography cannot be a chronological series of important events or a list of achievements. None of life’s “big events” have happened yet. Instead, it is a picture of the child in the act of living: what he liked to say, how he often acted, what he most enjoyed doing. It is not methodical or polished, but reading it, you get a glimpse of the boy as though you had the chance to meet him. That is what engages our sympathy and, if we let it, instructs us. Reading it, we are reminded of what a Life is-- not what we put on resumes, but what we are like and how we affect the people around us.
This boy's Life was clearly a happy one; much of the biography would hardly be sorrowful were it not for the constant presence of the word "was." In the first line, "was" hits me like a physical weight on my chest. It takes a lively, growing boy and his vibrant relationship with his parents and puts them in the receding, intangible past. I can feel the father’s love for his son as he writes. I can sense his delight, his pride, and his affection, and I ache imagining his loss. What a fearfully beautiful and heart-wrenchingly sad thing it is to love in the past tense.
It is common, I think, to react to a loss by urging others to love, and I share that instinct. This father’s writing, though, is a particular reminder to me of the value of loving in words. I think that the adage “Actions speak louder than words” can be misleading. It is true that words which are unsupported by action can be empty, and words which are contradicted by action are hypocritical. But is is also true that actions are subject to interpretation, and what one person intends as an act of love might be missed as such by its recipient. (It is an act of love for me to put dinner on the table for my picky daughter every day, but I’m pretty sure that she sees her plate and thinks, “yay! dinner!” not “Mommy loves me.”) Words without actions can lose their power, but actions without words might lose their intended meaning.
We must show and tell the people we love that we love them. Saying "I love you" is a good start, but it also worthwhile to take some mental exercise through the art of biography, writing as the father of Lily's schoolmate writes or speaking as he speaks. I need to take time to think through the moments, quirks, phrases, and habits that I value in those close to me and let them know how much I enjoy sharing their Lives. I do not want to miss a chance to love in the present tense.
(1) To read the family’s memorial page, visit: http://www.youcaring.com/memorial-fundraiser/love-for-asuka-and-carrie-in-memory-of-brady/82929
(2) Samuel Johnson. The Rambler, number 60. Saturday, October 13, 1750.
As part of my studies, I read several essays by the great eighteenth-century writer Samuel Johnson, and in one of these, he argues that biography is the most worthy form of writing, for it most strongly stimulates our human sympathy and our capacity to learn from examples. A good biography, he says, is not a mere sequence of important events or a catalog of accomplishments; it is, instead, a Life: a story or sketch which displays a man as he truly is--thinking, feeling, and behaving in certain ways. Too often, he says, writers “imagine themselves writing a Life when they exhibit a chronological Series of Actions or Preferments; and so little regard the Manners and Behaviour of their Heroes, that more Knowledge may be gained of a Man’s real Character, by a short Conversation with one of his Servants, than from a formal and studied Narrative...” (2)
How poignantly a father’s informal eulogy for his child illustrates Johnson’s point. A young child’s biography cannot be a chronological series of important events or a list of achievements. None of life’s “big events” have happened yet. Instead, it is a picture of the child in the act of living: what he liked to say, how he often acted, what he most enjoyed doing. It is not methodical or polished, but reading it, you get a glimpse of the boy as though you had the chance to meet him. That is what engages our sympathy and, if we let it, instructs us. Reading it, we are reminded of what a Life is-- not what we put on resumes, but what we are like and how we affect the people around us.
This boy's Life was clearly a happy one; much of the biography would hardly be sorrowful were it not for the constant presence of the word "was." In the first line, "was" hits me like a physical weight on my chest. It takes a lively, growing boy and his vibrant relationship with his parents and puts them in the receding, intangible past. I can feel the father’s love for his son as he writes. I can sense his delight, his pride, and his affection, and I ache imagining his loss. What a fearfully beautiful and heart-wrenchingly sad thing it is to love in the past tense.
It is common, I think, to react to a loss by urging others to love, and I share that instinct. This father’s writing, though, is a particular reminder to me of the value of loving in words. I think that the adage “Actions speak louder than words” can be misleading. It is true that words which are unsupported by action can be empty, and words which are contradicted by action are hypocritical. But is is also true that actions are subject to interpretation, and what one person intends as an act of love might be missed as such by its recipient. (It is an act of love for me to put dinner on the table for my picky daughter every day, but I’m pretty sure that she sees her plate and thinks, “yay! dinner!” not “Mommy loves me.”) Words without actions can lose their power, but actions without words might lose their intended meaning.
We must show and tell the people we love that we love them. Saying "I love you" is a good start, but it also worthwhile to take some mental exercise through the art of biography, writing as the father of Lily's schoolmate writes or speaking as he speaks. I need to take time to think through the moments, quirks, phrases, and habits that I value in those close to me and let them know how much I enjoy sharing their Lives. I do not want to miss a chance to love in the present tense.
(1) To read the family’s memorial page, visit: http://www.youcaring.com/memorial-fundraiser/love-for-asuka-and-carrie-in-memory-of-brady/82929
(2) Samuel Johnson. The Rambler, number 60. Saturday, October 13, 1750.
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