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Lesson Learned
It was an unusually warm and sunny day in March when we buried my father, his death marking the end of a life filled with 81 years of memories and lessons. We chose to celebrate his life rather than mourn his death.
When my brother Andy eulogized my father, he began by saying that, if you looked at my dad’s early circumstances, he might have been classified as a kid who wouldn’t make it. A product of divorced parents, he was raised by his aunt, uncle and father. He was a quintessential example of the group about whom Tom Brokaw wrote, “(they) were men and women who came out of the Depression, who won great victories and made lasting sacrifices in World War II and then returned home to begin building the world we have today. It is, I believe, the greatest generation any society has ever produced.”
The world he and my mom built for their family – my three brothers and I – was safe, secure and nurturing. In that world, honesty, hard work and a focus on doing what was right was expected. He was a man of few words. During my teenage years, a lifelong friend succinctly summed it up: “Your dad doesn’t say much, but if he does, it’s either important or funny.”
Maybe it’s because of my dad that that I learned how to listen. Not only to what people say, but to what they don’t say. If someone was talking, I could gauge my dad’s reaction just by looking at him.
Maybe it’s because of my dad I learned that there are times when it’s appropriate to stay quiet – times when words will do more harm than good.
Maybe it’s because of my dad that I learned to look for humor in situations. His wit was ingenious. I called it “smart humor” because you often had to stop and think before laughing. You had to pay attention – because if you didn’t, you’d miss the punch line.
Dad wasn’t one to listen to tales of woe. If I complained about a situation, he was likely to say, “There’s a lot of sadness in this world,” which would generally put an end to my pity party. His message was clear – I had abundant riches and blessings and needed to focus on what was right in my life instead of what was wrong.
After he died, I was sharing some thoughts with a dear friend. I wrote, “While it’s a sad time, we are also really blessed to be celebrating such a great life. He was a wonderful man. I have no regrets – no words left unspoken – and neither do my mom or my brothers.” My friend wrote back, “It’s the most anyone can hope, either of his or her own death, or the death of a loved one… ‘he was a wonderful man’ and ‘I have no regrets’. He smiled when you wrote that, I’m sure.”
At NAMIC, the core values that my father taught me are emulated in our industry’s desire to do the right thing and to make the right choices. It’s an industry founded on helping others. It’s an industry that helps people rebuild when loss has devastated their lives so that they can celebrate another day.
At the cemetery, a gathering of his grandchildren, ages seven to 29, held onto helium balloons. When my brother gave the word, they all released the balloons and sent them to Grandpa.
It was a devastating loss for our family, but we focused on celebrating. I think that’s what he would have wanted.
And it’s what I was taught.
Laura Biddle-Bruckman
Editor-In-Chief
Posted: Wednesday, June 01, 2005 12:00:00 AM. Modified: Wednesday, September 07, 2005 1:53:06 PM.
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