My Funeral Eulogy

If the phrase “You have one year to live,” ever came from the lips of my doctor, fleshly the first thing I would do is weep. I would crash into my mommy’s arms and my daddy’s strong chest as we shook and cried together walking to the car. During the drive home staring out of the window, pulling out of my brain all of my favorite joys in life that would soon be no more. Joys such as reading the Bible before bed with my parents, trips to Elcharro’s after church on Sundays, Christmas shopping every Saturday after Thanksgiving until Christmas, and Friday night family night at my grandparent’s house. I would picture the last time I led worship at church, wondering if they would let me sing all 52 Sundays until I passed. The pleasure of attending
college, making straight A’s every semester thus far. Remembering and then chastising myself for the countless times I worried too much about a test, or analyzed how many likes my Instagram picture was going to get. The joys of my life as well as the things I placed too much importance on would be dashing around my brain. A brain that was supposed to last maybe 65 more years, now only going to last 365 more days. All of it brought dim under the light of dying in a year. My flesh would feel sorry for myself; I would mope and continue to cry my eyes out all night, letting the cloud of approaching death settle over me like a blanket. I would plop into bed with my parents, and not go to sleep, wanting every little moment to last an eternity. Then, at the thought of eternity, the cloud that once threatened to steal my life from me instantly would fade. There is only One Name that comes to mind at the mention of eternity. That name is Jesus Christ, my Savior. Despite the fact that my flesh would be failing, my Eternity with Jesus would be only beginning. Psalm 30:5 says, “Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning” and that is exactly what would happen. I am a sinner and have been taught that I am only a piece of dust and that to dust I will return one day. However, this piece of dust would have a pity party and weep for the night, but joy would come in the morning. I would hop out of my literal bed of tears and seek out Jesus’ plans for me. He has good plans, He promises in Jeremiah 29:11, plans that are not to harm me, but to give me a hope and a future. Even, if the future He speaks of, means an Eternity at His feet and not on this earth, like I had hoped. Still human, I would continue to feel downtrodden and weary, but that would not stop me from having the best last year of my life with Jesus and my family by my side. My last year would not be spent traveling to exotic places, or lavish vacations, but it would be living a normal year, as I always do, minus school. As much as I love school, I would finish my studies, and not return the following school year. I would spend the last 365 days living the same life The Lord has blessed me to live for the past 20 years, not on temporary places and brief sight seeing. For two out of the last 52 weeks, I would like to return to my family’s beach house and the mountains. I would like to tell my beach house “good bye” and to breathe in the steamy, salty air by the ocean one last time. As I was by the sea, I would do my best to remember that God’s love for me is as wide and as vast as the ocean before me. Even though I would have questions about why He would choose me to die, I would still do my best to Praise Him. He sent His own Son, Jesus, to die for me so that I could live. Twenty years of living in Jesus’ place is more than I could’ve ever asked for to begin with. After a week of my favorite beach memories, boating, eating at “Ruddy Duck’s” and shopping with mom, I would want to take a trip to the mountains as my family has done once every year since I was three years old. I would attend the Appalachian State Football game, where my dad himself ran on the same field years ago, and scream loud, as if no one could hear me. I would want to hike up Grandfather Mountain, and hear my mom scream playfully at my dad for driving too fast up the tallest peak of the winding mountain. After one last trip to “Cornerstone” my mom’s favorite Christian bookstore, and a final meal at our favorite mountain restaurant, “Peppers,” I would return home and spend the weeks to come in my hometown of Benson, North Carolina. My extended family lives a town over, meaning they could come over and do “Friday night family time” anytime during the week, not just on Fridays anymore, because I would have only 52 Friday nights with my family left. Before nighttime with the family, I would spend the remaining days on the porch rocking to the beat of the wind chimes next to my mom as our Bible Time wrapped up, and the early evenings in the garden planting flowers next to my dad before supper was ready and my favorite television show, “Blindspot,” came on. I would be joyful because I have salvation in Jesus, but I would feel weary, because I am human. Yet, Sundays would roll around and lift me up. Spending time worshiping in God’s house and eating at Elcharro’s, life would feel like it has the past twenty years. Except it would not be anything like the past twenty years, I would be one day closer to death. Days away from death, yes, but also the last 365 days spent living out my real life. Not a pretend, “farewell” life, not spending my final moments as number 17 in another country, or a place that has never been significant in my life. It would be 365 walking hand in hand with Jesus, laughing with my parents, crying with my parents, and feeling distraught. As the days drew thin, I would reflect on my life, feeling small compared to the world around me that was so quickly passing on. I would wonder if everything I had ever invested in was for naught? My schooling, my friends, my singing, what good was it to make straight A’s if I am soon to be dead and never have the chance to apply to graduate school? Thoughts like this would slam around inside my brain, tempting me to return to the pit of somberness. Praise God, I would not be tempted beyond what I could bear. The answer to my wondering is found in the first chapter of Ecclesiastes, verses two through three. “Everything is meaningless. What do people gain from all their labors at which they toil under the sun?” Everything in life that is not done in the name of Jesus Christ, and for Jesus Christ is meaningless. As much as that would sting, and make me somewhat defensive, I would know that there is truth to that. I would be dying, leaving every “A”, friend, the process of applying to graduate school, picture, and memory behind. What good was any of it if it did not glorify and represent Jesus? I pray it did. As my time left on this earth drew short, and my last few goodbyes had been spoken through a choking sob, I would rest in the fact that no matter how wretched and unsure I felt that there is hope. I know Jesus, and because He got Himself out of His grave, he can get me out of mine. Knowing I was about to die, I would recommit my life to Him, and would place what I thought was “my life” into His hands. Realizing that all along it was His anyway. If my life wasn’t His and for His glory, that meant all of my labors were meaningless. I came from dust, and to dust I would return. If I heard the desolate words of death coming within the next year and I did pass away, it would be fitting that an obituary be written in my memory and submitted to the local newspaper. My obituary would read, “Number 17 died on August 29th, 2016. Her parents, Mr. and Mrs. 17, survived her. Number 17’s services will be held and conducted by Rose and Graham Funeral Home.” My parents would be able to write the obituary once I was gone, but I would choose my epitaph. I would request for my tombstone to say, “Well done thy good and faithful servant and daughter.” Based upon the passage in Matthew, I want to hear those words from The Mouth of God when I meet Him. After my death, one-step closer to meeting Him. A eulogy to be read at my funeral would be important to me. I would write my own eulogy to leave behind, and it would go like this. “When this is being read, I am gone. I am no longer in my spot on the pew in church, snuggled up on the couch, laughing while watching television or across the booth in Elcharro’s. I am waiting for the skies to split, to be reunited with my loved ones, and to meet my Jesus face to face. I loved this life I was able to live. I praise God for it. My parents were the best parents, having them as parents were like unwrapping a Christmas gift from God everyday of my life. Thank you both for every prayer, every sacrifice, every bit of time you ever spend with me. I cherished it long before I knew I had only one year left to live. Know that you raised me to know Jesus. Your work here on earth as a parent is over, now further The Kingdom of God in others lives, as you did so well in mine. I cannot wait to run into both of your arms as we approach the pearly gates together. I love you, and if I had ten thousand tongues, I could never say two things enough, “thank you” and “I love you.” I would also want both of my parents to write and read a eulogy for me at my funeral.
A eulogy that I would fear to be read at my funeral would be as follows. “Number 17 was my daughter. At least she biologically was. She thought she was kind to me, she thought I didn’t see through her insincere comments. She always asked me questions about her mom and I’s life, or commented on the freshly mowed yard, but it was only because she wanted me to hurry up and finish talking so that I could ask a question about hers. People thought that she was genuine, but she was genuinely not the person she professed she was. She worshiped on stage in front of several people, but when it was just she and I, Number 17 would gossip about the girl with the messed up hair and old jeans in the front pew. That is not what Jesus would do. In front of others, she would be sweet as sugar, silently sitting by. However, when the crowd left and the door shut at home, she would say things that people would never dream of hearing come from her “perfect” lips. She never listened, yet expected me to listen to every piece of good news happening at college or bad news she ever had. Her eyes squinted and she would nod as if she cared, pitying me, but she was already planning out the story she was about to tell me next. My daughter is gone now, unexpectedly. I never heard the words, “thank you,” or “ I love you.” I thought I taught her better. Yet, she did teach me one thing. She taught me what I wished my
daughter was like, the opposite of her.” A eulogy that I would hope would be shared at my funeral would be this. “Number 17 was my daughter, a woman after God’s Own Heart. She loved The Lord more than anything or anyone, and was fully devoted to following Him and His ways. She led Worship, singing to an audience of One, and lived a life of worship as well; she was the same person off the stage as she was on the stage. Number 17 was gentle, having a quiet spirit, and had the joy of The Lord. My daughter was constantly glowing because of this joy and was not ashamed to tell anyone who would listen the reason for her hope. She would ask about her father and I, listening and promising to pray for us. She did so without ever mentioning anything in her own life. She made me feel like I had one hundred percent of her attention when I would talk to her. I loved talking to her, and she let me know that she loved talking to me too. She made mistakes, and made sure that you knew it. Number 17 never claimed or wanted you to think she was perfect, rather pointed to her God, who was perfect. Family, singing, reading, eating oatmeal candy, it was the little pleasures in life that meant everything to her, but she found her contentment in Jesus. She loved well. I always knew how much Number 17 loved me. Even after being told Number 17 only had a year to live, she still praised God and lived her last year for Him. She told her father and I “thank you,” long before she knew she was sick. My little girl is gone now. She was and will forever be an example to me, an example of how I want to live. I will miss her as long as I live. A eulogy is a scary thing to think about, especially when it is about myself..
Being told that my existence was going to end within the year would leave me feeling wretched, stumbling around in pain and confusion. Praise God, I would not have to live the remainder of my life in that miserable state. I know Jesus, and He is not a God of confusion. He takes the pain and gives joy. My last year would not be lavish or expensive, but it would be a year that I loved, a year that reflected the hope found in Jesus. I wouldn’t live for Jesus just so that I could have nice things written about me in a eulogy, but so that I may leave a legacy. A legacy that my epitaph would sum up nicely, “Well done thy Good and Faithful servant and
daughter.”