A Blank Obituary

Have you ever wondered what people will say about you at your funeral? For one man, the answer was, “Absolutely nothing.”

In the mid-1970's, when we lived on our farm in Joseph, Oregon, I received a phone call one Sunday evening. The caller was the funeral director in the town of Enterprise—about 15 minutes away. He said, “A member of your Church has passed away, and since you are the head of the local LDS congregation the family has asked that you conduct the funeral.” When he gave me the man's name I told him I didn't recognize it. He explained that the man resided in a town 400 miles away on the Oregon coast, but while visiting family members in our area he’d suddenly passed away. The only information the funeral director could give me was the man’s name, date and place of birth, and his current address. Then he said, “The man has a daughter in the area. I suggest you call her to get more details about his life.” When I phoned the daughter and introduced myself, I learned that no one else in the man’s family was LDS. She then confirmed what the funeral director had already told me – that the family wanted me to conduct the funeral, and I was to be the only speaker. Since I had so little information about her father I asked if she could share any memorable details from his life -- perhaps something about his accomplishments and interests. After a long pause she said, “No, I can’t think of anything.” I was stunned. Not so much by having to conduct the funeral of a total stranger, but because the man’s own daughter could think of nothing at all to say about him! The graveside service was held at mid-day on a barren hillside in the town cemetery. The weather was hot and windy. No members of the local branch were in attendance except Sister Jensen who had agreed to sing a song – unaccompanied, of course. She had a nice singing voice, but few could actually hear it because she was singing into a strong wind. About thirty people were in attendance. One was a son of the deceased--a good-looking young man in full Navy dress uniform who'd flown in from his duty station in the Mediterranean. Another was an LDS woman from the deceased's home ward, obviously a close friend. She, Sister Jensen, and I were the only ones in Sunday dress. Everyone else was in casual attire or had come directly from the fields or work. One woman still had curlers in her hair. I spoke about the Plan of Salvation, the promise of a resurrection through Christ's Atonement. Because of the wind, I had to almost shout to be heard. It wasn’t easy preaching to an audience where I didn’t know a soul. After the funeral, the man’s son thanked me very sincerely. Then the LDS lady friend introduced herself and thanked me for my remarks. And just like that, it was over. Everyone returned to their everyday activities. I went home and took off my suit, changed back into my Levi’s, t-shirt, and cowboy boots, and went back to helping my brother-in-law harvest his barley crop. But my thoughts weren’t on the barley. I was thinking about the man who’d died, feeling a deep sadness for this husband and father—a man who had, as I recall, lived about seventy years but whose own family couldn’t think of a single thing to say to honor his memory. Someone has written: “Some people come into our lives and quickly leave. Others come and stay awhile—leaving their footprints on our hearts—and we are never, ever the same again.” I hope we may leave meaningful footprints on the hearts of those with whom we associate so that no one will ever say they can’t think of anything worthy to say about us at our funeral.