Living Big

I buried a World War II veteran this morning. He was 90 years old. He was injured during the war. On his 5th trip across a minefield to retrieve soldiers, a landmine went off, killing the soldier he was helping and severely injuring him. He was told he would never walk again and would never be able to hold down a job. Eleven months later, he walked out of the hospital.

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As I listened to his family talk about him, I realized that he was a man who lived big. In addition to his farm here, he owned vacation homes up north and down south. He was also a talker. He could talk to anyone about anything. I would walk in to visit him and he was obviously exhausted or not feeling well. He'd light up when I walked in, and be disappointed when I told him I was leaving and he needed to rest.

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His wife died over 10 years ago. Not content to be alone, he fell in love and married again when he was over 80. He had 9 good years with his second wife, who was devastated by his death. He lived big, and didn't accept the limits of medical people or society. He could have more friends, more homes, more family.

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He was a good man. He was delighted when he told me he'd chosen me to do his funeral. I told him then I would be honored to do it. So I buried him today, and it was, indeed, an honor.