The Show Must Go On

On June 28, 1996, my friend Bill Baroni died. Bill and I waited tables together for several years. He was a wonderful mentor and friend. At a crossroad in my life, he sat me down and advised me simply to grow up. I followed his advice and will forever be grateful to him for the blessings of my wife, Cheryl, and my children. Although we were not close during his last years, Bill's death affected me profoundly.

My reaction to Bill's passing was actually a bit alarming. I know it is normal to mourn and to cry and to feel a sense of sorrow and loss at the death of a loved one, but I was concerned that I did not stop mourning. It struck me that in one year I had lost three individuals whom I had loved very much, and Bill's death brought this back to me with a vengeance. I could not motivate myself to seek any comfort or any enjoyment in anything I was doing and I wondered how I was going to get back on track.

My answer came in the form of a 13-day excursion by train to Tennessee with my family. As I traveled cross-country by rail, I had plenty of time to ponder the complexities of life and death. And with the help of my children, I learned great many lessons on this trip. I believe children are a great source of knowledge and enlightenment. Mine are a constant reminder of how much I have yet to learn.

One of the things they helped me to realize is that there are basic truths that will invaluably assist our understanding of the chaos and conflict in our lives.

The train always has the right-of-way.

As we passed countless railroad crossings, my son, Jacob, noticed that the cars always stop for the train. He asked the conductor about this and was told, "The train always has the right-of-way." The conductor did not go into a list of exceptions and alternatives. He stated a simple truth.

Don't you think our lives would be easier if we could count on or rely on a few absolutes?

Hard work has value.

As we sat down to dinner one night with the Denver skyline in the background, my daughter, Janae, told me, "When I grow up, I want to be a waitress." Perhaps like you, my first thought was that I wanted better for my daughter. And then I realized what a snob I had become. I forgot about my eight years as a waiter and about my friend Bill, the waiter. Bill realized the value of his service. He wasn't waiting tables to get through school or to make extra money, nor was he on his way to "better." When asked what he did for a living, he always proudly announced, "I'm a waiter."

If Janae wants to be a waitress, I will support her wholeheartedly. I will remember that there is value in hard work and I will remember that a waiter is a person who can say, "I am a servant." What could be more honorable than that?

Respect your elders.

The main purpose of our trip was to visit my wife's 88-year-old grandmother who, though essentially bedridden, is still as sharp as ever. I think my children were amazed to see a place where, on Sunday afternoon, the entire family still gathered after church under Grandma's matriarchal eye to eat barbecue and homegrown vegetables and to share conversation. They heard people say "Yes, ma'am" and "Yes, sir," "please" and "thank you."

They saw life in the slow lane and I think they liked it. I saw that such behavior takes effort, but that that effort is rewarded with a gentler and even nobler lifestyle.

Wealth is not material.

While in Memphis we, of course, went to see Elvis Presley's house. My children commented, "He was really rich, wasn't he, Dad?" Yes, Elvis was very rich, but what was also evident was that there was a pervasive sadness about him no amount of money ever overcame.

And again my thoughts again turned to my friend Bill and also to my friend Randy both of whose days were cut short. By the world's standards, neither of them was a rich man. But as I thought of their lives, I realized that both had shared their lives with the loves of their lives, and each had died in her arms. I hope I will be as wealthy.

Run the race to win, but accept defeat with dignity.

Like many of you, summer '96 was filled with the Olympics. As we watched the Games, we spoke of gold medals and of losing. I cannot profess to being a good sport, so the lesson here is a difficult one for me. But Janae got the message loud and clear. "It would be neat just to be there," she said. In my mind, she nailed it.

Like Olympic athletes, we should run with a clear goal with our eyes fixed on the prize. We should run not only with discipline and endurance and to win, but also to know that the joy, which buoys the heart of the athlete, comes as much from the agony and pain of competition as it does from victory.

Some things you just can't change.

As we boarded the train in Tennessee, it was hard not to dwell on the poignant fact that this might be the last time we were going to see Grandma. In spite of Jacob's reminder, "Dad, we'll see her in heaven," this was still a difficult moment. Once more my thoughts turned to Bill, and then to my Uncle Ellis and our camping trips to Lake Havasu, and to Randy, my precious friend who died at age 42 and whose presence I miss so much. We used to joke that we would be playing basketball with our kids when we were 60 years old. That won't happen.

The point of all this: There is nothing we can do to change the fact that a loved one is gone. But we need not and should not let go of them. There are some that would have us forget them in order to ease our pain. Instead we should cling to our remembrances, which will keep them alive and vibrant in our hearts and minds. Those memories will sustain us.

It's good to mourn.

As we were leaving Grandma, my wife was unable to hide her tears. Our daughter approached her and said, "It's okay to cry, Mom." And she is right.

I think of young Jessica who was going to be the youngest person ever to fly all the way across the nation and back. When she died, her mother encouraged loved ones not to mourn or cry. "It's a celebration," she said. She was wrong.

The Bible teaches us that to have one's days cut short (Psalm 89:45 and Psalm 102:23) is a great sadness a tragedy. No matter your religious beliefs, I think we all agree that this is true. Even at 88, life still seems too short, "like a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes" (James 4:14). Death should not be taken too lightly. Tragedy should not be handled with denial. It's okay to cry.

The show must go on.

A few days after Bill's death, I received a telephone call from a client about certain work I had promised and had not yet completed. Checking my anger, I realized I had expected the world to stand still and pay homage to my friend. The client was right. He was interested in the now, in living, in life.

I am indebted to my father for giving me the book Only in America by Harry Golden. In it, Golden tells a story about a man named Tagore, who had a servant who did not come in on time. Understandably, Tagore thought of ways to punish the man. Three hours later, however, Tagore no longer thought only of punishment. Instead, he decided he'd discharge the man without further ado to get rid of him, turn him out.

Finally the man showed up. It was midday. Without a word, the servant proceeded with his duties as though nothing had happened. He picked up his master's clothes, set to making breakfast and started cleaning up. Tagore watched the performance with mounting rage. Finally he said, "Drop everything, and get out!" The man however, continued sweeping and after another few moments, with quiet dignity, said, "My little girl died last night."

The show must go on.

Background Information

Questions and Answers

Stories

If you've been through a experience related to this topic, we invite you to share your story with others.
Share Your Story

Other Things to Consider

Life PressuresWorking Moms, Stay-at-Home Moms

RelationshipsBlended Families, Divorce, Parents and Adult Children, Caring for Elderly Parents