Dearly Beloved?

How do I start a eulogy? Dearly Beloved...? Or is that just for weddings? Thank you for coming? We have gathered today...?

Truthfully, the problem isn’t how to START the eulogy. It’s the eulogy itself. What do I say? Roger Garrison rejected the Lord. Many times. In fact, the last time I saw him I told him he was going to die on the streets. He’d had a head injury a few weeks prior. The story was he’d been the wobbly, inebriated pedestrian in a hit and run. After his death, whispered allegations pointed to his walking companion as the attacker in a carefully staged robbery assault. The police didn’t care. This was Tent City, after all. Rumor has it as long as they confine the murders to within their own camp the animalistic rules of natural selection are more apropos than the criminal justice system. Then again, the rumor mill on the streets could rival any junior high locker room.

Whatever had happened, Roger had been sporting increasingly darkening bandages around his head and had maggots crawling out of his wounds. He’d been treated and released three times since the initial injury and he was getting weaker by the day.

“Please let me find somewhere for you to go,” I’d beg. “This is no way to live.”

He refused.

The last time I saw him I pleaded once more. “WHY?” I demanded an answer. “Why would you rather die out here in a filthy tent than go somewhere to get help?”

“Because they won’t let me do what I want to do.”

“What is that?” I asked.

“Drink and smoke.”

“So, drinking and smoking mean more to you than your own life?!” I’d like to say I was incredulous, but the truth was I’d been hearing a version of this on the streets for a year.  

“Yes.”

There was no conversation about the gospel that day. We’d had that conversation many times before. He’d smile and say, “Not today.” Maybe I should’ve tried harder. Maybe he’d already been turned over to a reprobate mind and no amount of witnessing could’ve brought him back. I don’t know.  But a few days later, when that call came in, I was devastated. I couldn’t possibly have done enough or he wouldn’t be gone.

Or I at least wouldn’t be sitting here now trying to figure out how to honor a life that systematically rejected the Lord and everything He stood for.

The coroner had him as little more than a John Doe. Because of our brief conversations I was able to provide enough information for the coroner and through social media,  I was able to track down his grown children with slightly alarming speed.

The Lord wasn’t the only one Roger rejected. His daughter said that her dad abandoned the family over twenty years ago. While initially stunned, she chose to recount a few happy childhood memories for me to share at the service. Several states away, coming to Mississippi wasn’t an option for her. We talked on the phone at length, however, and she’ll always be close to my heart.

One story stood out. She hadn’t seen him in eight years and their last night together turned out to eerily prophetic. They were watching an episode of CSI, where a homeless guy turned up dead and the team spent the hour trying to uncover his identity.

“I’m afraid that’ll be you, Dad,” she’d told him. “You’re going to die somewhere and I’ll never know.”

It wasn’t an unfounded fear. She was ten when her mother kicked him out of the house following the discovery of an affair. High school sweethearts, she’d put up with his affair with the bottle for years. But another woman she couldn’t tolerate. Not with two young kids at home.  For the next two decades, Roger drifted from place to place, working odd jobs and trying to maintain sobriety in the good times, and sleeping in tents and benches in the bad.

I knew none of this while he was alive. Nor did I know he grew up in an orphanage and hadn’t seen his three siblings since childhood. If I had, maybe I would’ve responded differently. Hindsight may not actually be 20/20 but it is a whole lot sharper than foresight.    

His son followed the pattern of 95% of family members I’ve met in this ministry. His dad was already dead in his mind. I couldn’t blame him; this was a man he’d seen only twice since he was five years old. My heart broke for the loss.

A balancing act. My ministry is always about balance anyway. Balancing my time between church and the streets, my alone time with God and time with my husband…I have to weigh out how much to help someone versus when I’m enabling them to remain in the throes of addiction..it’s all a balancing act and this eulogy will be no different. I will honor Roger’s memory but also use this a time to share salvation.

The service was beautiful. Because the coroner hadn’t released the remains, we just held a simple memorial service in the park. Many homeless attended, as did a local store owner Roger worked for many years ago. I wished I’d have known who he was beforehand; I’d have asked him to talk. I shared a few stories, like how Roger always wanted to stand next to me in circle prayers. I always thought he felt the divine presence of God while holding my hand and was honored until they day he leaned in and said, “I love standing next to you. You smell so good!” There were good memories and lots of laughter. An introspective look at life. A salvation message.  I’d like to think we gave a little hope to the hopeless that day.