Eulogy for Lawrence

Note from JPMD: I'm posting this for my sister Heather, who gave this eulogy on Sunday, 23 January 2000. Lawrence was stabbed to death in San Jose in mid-January, reasons unknown. I never met the man, but he touched my family deeply and I'm saddened by his death. Sis, I'm so sorry--please let me know what else I can do for you.

Lawrence's greatest fear was that he would be forgotten. In those moments when two people share secrets and make promises, he would ask, "If anything ever happens to me, will you remember me?"

"How could I forget you?" I would ask in turn. I loved him like no other and he is the father of my son.

"Promise that you won't forget me," he demanded more than once.

So this small poem is for you, Lawrence, because I want to remind you that you are unlike anyone I have known or will know. And your life was vastly more important than you believed.

The poem is by Emily Dickinson:

     If I can stop one heart from breaking,
     I shall not live in vain;
     If I can ease one life the aching,
     Or cool one pain,
     Or help one fainting robin
     Unto his nest again,
     I shall not live in vain.

Lawrence once brought me a bird with a broken wing. I didn't know what to do with it. "Take it, take it," he said with urgency. He was on the way to his Doctor's when he spotted it, and he was afraid that if he left it, it might not be there when he headed back. He was going to be late for his appointment so I kept it and took it to the vet where they set its wing.

Lawrence, your death has shaken and broken us. We had hoped you would grow old. We dreamed that you would proudly watch your son and your daughter grow up. We imagined that your rambling days would come to an end and you would find a home in the country where you could have all the pets you wanted. Where you could marvel at God's natural world at your ease. That you would know what it is like to have a place to call home.

In a world of my making, someone would have found you soon enough to set your wing. Or, in the very least, those you most loved would have encircled your bedside. Like the Sisters of Mercy, we would have cooled your brow and stroked your hair, and clasped your fighter's hands as you fought for breath.

As God had it, there was a friend there. Though she did not recognize you in your state, Rita Wilson was in that room as she and others worked valiantly to save you. But perhaps you know that already. Perhaps God put her there, and you, through one of God's mysterious works, felt her presence on your left, though your eyes could not see. That is my prayer, anyway.

Oh Lawrence, your heart was big. No. Big is too small a word. Your heart was princely. You loved fiercely and immovably. Your love was not the fair-weather sort. You did not know how to love someone one day and forsake them the next.

Your heart was generous. You had no house, no car, and few belongings, but you did not hunger for objects like so many of us do. Do you remember when we drove to Seven-Eleven to get something to drink? It was raining. A homeless man sat outside in his wheelchair, quietly hoping for change. You walked up to him and handed him a ten-dollar bill. He gawked at the bill. Perhaps he thought you had made a mistake.

"It's okay," you said, "I understand." You with so little, bought your grandmother a dog she loved. You bought your brother Gary a coat. And for Christmas you bought Malcolm a skateboard with a third of your monthly check. Thank you Lawrence, for knowing how to give when you have nothing left.

In a world of my imagining, you would have stayed among us for years to come. There would have been time: more time for my love, your children's love, and the love of those you called family and friends to convince you of your own worth. Because you meant, and continue to mean, more to us than comfort or money.

A Russian poet has said that:

     ... If a man lived in obscurity
     making his friends in that obscurity
     obscurity is not uninteresting.

     To each his world is private,
     and in that world one excellent minute,

     And in that world one tragic minute.
     These are private.

     In any man who dies there dies with him
     his first snow and kiss and fight.
     It goes with him.

     They are left books and bridges
     and painted canvas and machinery
     whose fate is to survive.

     But what has gone is also not nothing:
     by the rule of the game something has gone.
     Not people die but worlds die in them.

Your world has died, and you take with you your first snow, your first kiss, your first fight. But we keep many of those moments that you shared, that you gave.

Thank you, Lawrence, for your time, for your friendship. Thank you for being my best friend. Thank you for falling in love with me when I was the loneliest young girl in the world. Thank you for believing I was beautiful. Thank you for our son who has a heart as big as your own.

And wherever your wanderings take you now, whether through orchard or mountain or plain, big dogs at your side, know that I thank you. We all thank you. Just for being you.

You are free now.

Amen.

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