We held a remembrance of Eddie this past weekend in Kansas City, the place we called home for 38 years. I am still floating high because of all the love that emanated from the more than 200 friends and family members who filled the seats of the auditorium and who gave us enough hugs to help get us through the difficult weeks, months and years ahead as we make our way without him.


It was truly a family effort, and I couldn't be more proud of - and grateful for - my sister, my kids and my grandkids. The above photo, which was the cover of the program, was made by daughter Abbie. She and her brother Max shared some poignant and funny memories of their dad, including a detailed explanation of what they call "golden child points" (how you get them, how they've playfully competed for them over the years and how they, at his bedside in the hospital, asked Eddie for the final tally). My sister Bobbie gave an eloquent eulogy, a small portion of which I'm including here. Eleven-year-old granddaughter Clara (named for Eddie's mother) read a poem she wrote for the occasion, Abbie and her husband Sam sang "You Can Close Your Eyes" by James Taylor and "I Will" by Lennon and McCartney. 


You get the picture.


If you have any interest in watching parts (or all) of the program, you can do so here.


I wish I knew how to bottle the feeling I have right now. I feel warm, safe, light and so very loved.


Here's are Clara's poem, a portion of Bobbie's remarks and a couple of things I had to say about Eddie.

"Lifting Fog"
by Clara Brandao

The fog that has descended is here to stay.
Whispering around us, we won't forget it.
We have huddled together, trying to make out the shadows
in the distance, promising a clear future, for long enough.
Now that the clouds have drifted down around us, the sky is
free from the threat of rain.
If we can be brave enough to let the birds teach us to fly
above our sorrow, we, at last, will reach the brilliant blue
that slipped away in the wind.
We will come to embrace the fog that our fingers once
passed through, and pluck the teardrops from the air.
For scrapbooks, for picture frames, for lockets.
We won't forget it.
But, in the end, we will decide that the leap of faith to the
clear blue sky is worth it, and we will continue our journey
to the sun.



Excerpt from Bobbie's remarks:

Psychologist Dr. Gretchen Schmelzer writes, “When someone dies it’s not just that the world feels emptier without them, it feels like there is something in us that has changed”.  Who will we be without them?

She describes us all as mosaics - made up of the small colored tiles created from where we come from, where we have been, who we have loved, and what we hold dear. When our loved ones are alive, they hold the pieces of their mosaics themselves and through our connection to them we feel and borrow the strength and wisdom of their tiny tiles.  When that someone dies, the mosaic pieces shift - and we must begin the work of taking in and integrating their tiles, as we are able.

Eddie’s mosaic was a brightly colored design of love and kindness, of giving and selflessness.  And while our hearts are broken by our loss, it is also a time to gather up pieces of his mosaic.  In fact, Dr. Schmelzer suggests, “This is why our hearts must break.  This is why we must fall apart.  This is why grief shatters.”  As Eddie’s friends, family and community, we must feel the brokenness, for without it we can’t absorb the pieces of his mosaic.  It is this grief that will allow us to integrate Eddie’s tiles and rebuild a world not just without him, but a world that also includes him. A world where we look not just to care for our inner most circles, but all the circles that surround us.



And an excerpt from mine:

I met Eddie just before I turned 18. He was 22, bearded and long-haired and drove a VW bus. He played the guitar, was handsome, slightly rebellious and very funny. I’d never met anyone as cool as he was.

I said goodbye to Eddie a month after I turned 70. He was 74, bearded, his hair was starting to grow back after chemotherapy and had been giving thought to buying a old VW bus. He was handsome, slightly rebellious and very funny. I’d never said goodbye to anyone as cool as he was.

In between the hello and the goodbye were 52 years. That’s a lot, but honestly, we would have loved to have had more. We were still having such a good time together.

It was easy to have a good time with Eddie. He loved to joke around He was playful and could be very silly. He was sharp and witty. He was also a prankster. When our kids were young, I lost my glasses and offered a $10 reward to anyone who found them. Eddie discovered them, but instead of giving them to me, he put them in the refrigerator. Later that afternoon I went to get a cold drink and lo and behold, there they were, nestled between the orange juice and a can of soda and I called out, you guys I have no idea how this happened, but I left my glasses in the fridge! The kids were in on the joke, and they and Eddie howled with laughter. Of course, from that day on, every time I lost something, Eddie would remind me to check the refrigerator.

He was the most thoughtful person I ever knew. Once when I was going through a hard time, he’d ask me each day: how are you doing? I kept saying: “I’m just so out of sorts.” Before I knew it, a package arrived for me. It was a two-pound bag of M&M’s. You know how they usually say M on each little piece of candy? Well, printed on these was the word “sorts.” Eddie poured them in a bowl, set the bowl on my desk, and then declared, now you won’t be out of sorts anymore.