Lists

I am someone who is really helped by having lists composed either in my head or on a piece of paper. Usually I delight in marking something off of my list. It is so nice to savor that moment of “finished”. The exception to this, of course, is when I mark a person off my list. That is something I never enjoy.

Let me explain.

Every night when we put our boys to bed we pray as a family. Nothing complicated — just prayer for the normal things, for friends, for family. So, for many years, our prayers included Ma Beaut (my spunky maternal grandmother), Miss Liz (my Scottish-born, heaven-sent neighbor), Mr. Jim (our delightful blind friend from church), Mema (my serene paternal grandmother), and Uncle Buddy (my beloved uncle who had cerebral palsy, Mema’s firstborn son who I mention here.) One by one, over the last several years, these precious people have ceased to be on our prayer list when they passed away from this earth and needed our prayers no longer. My Uncle Buddy was the last to be dropped from my list. He died a few weeks ago.

It is hard for me to believe that we will no longer pull off of I-65 in order to visit Buddy and my Mema. Going to see them was always an interesting experience. In the last several years my grandmother’s mind was going and she was also hard of hearing. She didn’t know who we were but that didn’t keep her from being polite and welcoming. Buddy was sharp as a tack and had excellent hearing but we couldn’t understand his speech. So, we basically sat there pleasantly talking about the weather while my grandmother would mentally count my children and periodically say, “You’ve got four boys?” Buddy would smile at that, all the while taking in the chaos that the boys made running around and catching lizards on the porch. You know, those visits were never convenient. We drove out of our way so that we could see them. It was always worth the trouble.

I have so many memories of Uncle Buddy. He always lived with Mema and Granddaddy, and so was always there when my family would come for a visit. He was confined to a wheelchair for the last couple of decades of his life, at least, but I remember him walking when I was a child. His walk was made up of staggering steps taken from one piece of furniture to the next. Just seeing him ambulate made one wonder if the force of gravity pulled harder on him than it did on other people. It always scared me a little to see him walk. I wasn’t afraid for myself or for him, really. I knew that he had fallen before and would again, and many times. I think it was just the sheer beauty of the effort involved — I wanted him to make it to his destination in safety. Once I managed to tear my eyes away from his staggering form and look at his face, though, almost all of that fear would leave me because I would see his smile. The smile of that man — he smiled with his whole heart and I don’t think any fear could stand up to a smile like that.

My son, J, and I do a lot of talking about heros and villains. Mainly, these conversations come after he has seen a movie, of course, and so the characters are more sharply drawn than in real life. This is good for J because the hero/villain concept is a difficult one to get a hold of. For his sake, I sometimes wish that real life was like this with heros and villains being represented so starkly. J is still learning how there is both hero and villain in each of us.

A particularly good example of hero and villain was recently presented in the movie Toy Story 3. Now, I don’t want to spoil the movie for anyone who has not seen it, so I’ll just say that the villain in it was confusing for J because the villain spoke one way and acted in a different manner entirely. J doesn’t really get the complicated treachery presented in this — and he may never get it. His brain just isn’t wired that way. So, I just simplified it all by reinforcing with J that what someone says is important, but who that person really IS can be seen in what that person chooses to do. So, yes, the villain can be sporadically kind and we can even feel sympathy toward him but that doesn’t change his villain status if his actions have earned him that. Likewise, J and I have talked a lot about heros and how they are never perfect people. We talk about how a hero might make many mistakes. We talk about how the hero sometimes thinks about giving up or may even feel bitterness about the situation at hand and how it must be dealt with. The main thing, I tell J, is that when the time comes, a hero does the noble, moral, right thing despite his own flawed character and the crummy task at hand. The hero’s choice of action makes him heroic.

This idea of heroism being the proper action taken in the face of unwelcome circumstances is a good one, I think. It applies to the pilot who landed the plane on the river to save all of his passengers. I’d bet that if someone had asked him before his flight about whether he’d like to land on a river that day he would have said a definitive “NO!”. But, the situation warranted that action and he rose to the occasion and did his duty well. He was a hero because on that one day, with those circumstances, he did the right thing. My Uncle Buddy was a hero in exactly the same way — only that he was a hero every single day.

Compared to you, compared to me, Uncle Buddy didn’t have many choices. He was walled in on almost every side. From a society that didn’t understand his disability, to his body that would not bend to his will. He was limited in where he could go, what he could do. His disability limited his independence and insulated his wonderful mind — keeping so much of himself in.

Buddy didn’t have much, and yet, he always chose to be generous. He couldn’t raise his body but he managed to raise lots of funds for Cerebral Palsy. He couldn’t enunciate but that didn’t keep him from talking and it certainly didn’t keep him from singing, either. (Thank goodness for that!) He took an eager interest in the world around him, he had a great sense of humor. He had an infectious laugh and a great spirit.

Our world is vast. Does it ever strike you — perhaps when you travel and see new places or maybe when you stop and just think about it. It’s almost overwhelming, sometimes, to think of how crazy and busy and populous this earth is. I think, too, that sometimes when we are undone by life and its trials and consider this immense world we start to feel tiny. The temptation is there to think that who we are and what we say about ourselves through our actions doesn’t matter so much. This is wrong, of course. The way we live our lives — it matters. I know this because whenever I visited Buddy I always left happier and yet wanting to be a better person.

So, I’m not going to waste his example. His life continues to inspire me not only by what he could do but also by what he couldn’t do.

Buddy could never stand up straight. I can. I will do it and I will think of him.

I’m going to try some new things in my life. I might fail spectacularly. I don’t like to fail but I’m going to remember to be grateful that I have the chance to try. Buddy had very limited opportunities. I don’t. So, I’ll try and I’ll think of him.

Buddy went out of his way to be generous. I’m going to try to do the same. I will think of him, and the chewing gum that he always gave the nieces and nephews. I will think of him and how he was himself a gift to everyone who met him.

There are so many things in life that we think are important and some of these things really are vital. However, many of the things that we concern ourselves with are really not worth our time or energy. The passing of a precious person helps us realize, again, of what really, truly matters. I’m going to try and remember this more often — and I’ll think of him.

Related: Read my cousin Benita’s wonderful eulogy of Buddy that she delivered at the funeral service.