Remembering John Lazarus

Attending my cousin John Lazarus’s memorial service made me wish that I had known him better, beyond the family group vacations that I barely remember, and the frequent reunions at which we smiled and spoke and, perhaps, took each other for granted. Through each reminiscence, the personal traits that were always hiding in plain sight gradually unfolded like a tapestry—his creativity, his deep attention to others, his knack for seeing solutions and building consensus. John died too soon—he saw his children, but not his grandchildren grown—but he died well. I didn’t make it to Gloucester in those last weeks, but by all accounts his was a graceful letting go. As always at memorials and funerals, I felt the absence that his family will carry forward through the years, his wife Martha who is so like John, radiating peace and gentleness even in this circumstance, his mother and siblings, his children and grandchildren. Yet I think we all felt more strongly what John had been plainly telling us, not in so many words, all along—that there was much, much more to feel grateful for, that it is enough.

I thought of course of my brother Rick’s passing, nearly twenty years ago. Rick was in the prime of life, with three young boys, and he died without the opportunity for farewells. Looking back now, I see that time can soften the bitterest fate. The three boys are fine, whole men, and Rick’s widow Sylvia has a loving husband. We miss him, we miss them all—but It is enough, it is enough.