The Greatest Gift of All

I’ve never been much of a gift-giver or receiver. I’m too self-sufficient to need or want anything, too self-centered to figure out your needs and wants.

I know, I know. Gift-giving is not just about fulfilling material needs or wants, it’s about the joy we derive from the giving itself, which is even better than the joy we get from the receiving. It’s an ancient practice that reaffirms our familial and social ties, a tangible manifestation of the invisible threads that bind us together. It’s an essential engine of our economy.

So gift-giving is a good thing. I recognize that. It’s just not for me.

As a result, I’ve worked assiduously over the years to shrink my holiday gift-giving circle, ruthlessly paring down my gift-giving relationships. Today my circle is limited to spouse, parents, siblings and one friend who ignores my very clear gift-hating signals and still sends me something every year, obligating me to reciprocate. Damn him!

Each year at this time, as they buy presents and check off their lists, rushing to finish their shopping before the annual orgy of obligatory gifting, I imagine them stalling at my name, scratching their heads, wondering: “What does he want?” No one knows.

And I certainly don’t help them. If they ask me what I want, I tell them: “Nothing.” I never drop hints; if I see something I really want, I buy it. It never occurs to me to ask someone to buy it for me.

If they are particularly intrepid, and try to discern my desires through my hobbies, they will be frustrated. I have no visible hobbies. I suppose it would help if I collected something, anything, but, alas, I collect nothing. I am an avid consumer of music and books, but I keep my tastes to myself. If you want to buy me a book or a CD, good luck. I have a hard enough time finding books and CDs I like; for you the task is all but impossible. A classic needle in the haystack situation.

It doesn’t stop people from trying, bless them, and as a result my shelves and CD racks bulge with the accumulated bloat of years of ill-chosen gifts that I can’t bear to read or listen to, but that I also can’t bear to discard for fear of offending these well-meaning but misguided gifters.

Don’t you hate having to buy gifts for people like me?

Years ago I tried to reform and start playing the gift game, but when they asked what I wanted, I honestly couldn’t think of anything. Just drew a blank. Still do. I’d offer up staples I’d have to buy anyways, such as a new coat or socks, or a six-pack of my favorite beer, but they could see through my little dodge. They knew my heart wasn’t in it. I tried just making stuff up, but I felt too guilty as they scurried off to spend their hard-earned cash on stuff I didn’t really want.

These days they mostly give me gift certificates – Amazon is their current favorite – but the whole thing is very unsatisfying for all involved. They don’t get to see me eagerly tearing the paper off a box filled with their thoughtfully-selected goods, no, now they’re reduced to calling and asking if I checked my email. Or telling me that gift card is good for $50 at Best Buy. It’s so impersonal, gift-giving reduced to a mere financial transaction. And I feel so bad when I they need the money more than I do.

So why do I persist in frustrating these nice people?

Part of it must be attributed to my asocial tendencies. Gift-giving is a hassle for everyone, but most of us grit our teeth and go through with it because we place such a high value on maintaining our social connections. I don’t value those connections nearly as much as most, so the hassle of gift-giving simply isn’t worth it for me.

Similarly, I have a deeply insecure need for privacy, a need so great that it won’t permit me to reveal my deepest desires to anyone, lest they mock me, or to rely on anyone to satisfy those desires, lest they let me down.

Part of it is because I can afford to buy what I want. I don’t need you to buy it for me.

And part of it is because I’ve had this uneasy sense for a long time that, if I’m not careful, my possessions will possess me. I’m afraid to like them too much. So I keep them at a wary distance, resisting their attraction, trying to enforce a strictly utilitarian relationship with them. It doesn’t help when you ply me with bright and shiny things.

Slowly but surely, my possession aversion is turning me into a minimalist: if you avoid new stuff and discard old stuff long enough, one day you’ll end up with nothing. I’m getting there. On the way, I’ve discovered the simple joys of throwing things away. Of cleaning out a closet. Of emptying drawers. Of finding 100 pens and deciding that’s 99 too many. Of figuring out exactly how many shirts I need, and discarding the rest. Of giving my books away, better to be read by someone else than gathering dust on my shelves.

This is how it must feel when a dieter loses weight. I feel so light and free, it’s liberating!

So this year, when the few remaining members of my gift-giving circle ask me yet again what I want, instead of saying “nothing,” I’ll say what I want more than anything else in the whole wide world is for them to take something from me. Preferably something I like, for I’ve probably grown too attached to it for my own good. So reduce my load, ease my burden, help liberate me. That is the gift I want.

After all, it is better to give than receive, isn’t it?

The Most Eloquent Eulogy

Things have been quiet here for a while, but those rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated. Death has, however, been on my mind even more than usual since I was asked to deliver a eulogy.

It isn’t easy to write a eulogy.

They don’t give you much time. A few days at most before you have to drop your pen and stand and deliver.

Meanwhile, you’re in a state of shock, grief-stricken, haunted by dark thoughts. Far from ideal writing conditions.

So you cast about for something, anything, to get your pen moving. How about a quote? Everyone loves a quote, especially if it’s a pithy observation on the fragility of life. You search and discover that every human who’s ever lived has uttered at least two or three pithy observations on the fragility of life. Faced with the prospect of squandering the rest of your life sifting through piles of pithy observations on the fragility of life, you choose the first mildly appropriate quote. Finally, your eulogy is on its way. But where?

Staring at the nearly blank page, clock ticking, desperation mounting, you inevitably drift into the Survey. When was he born, where did he grow up, where did he go to school, what did he do for a living, what were his hobbies and favorite sports team, what are the names of his beautiful wife or wives and children and grandchildren, as applicable. Now you’re speeding along, words gushing out, this eulogy as easy as filling out a form.

Watch out, though: This just-the-facts-ma’am eulogy is just what you’d expect from someone who’s only pretending he knew the deceased. Is that you? If yes, shut up and sit down. The dead deserve better. If not, ask yourself why ministers, priests, rabbis and other presiding funeral professionals prefer the Survey. It’s the easy way out. No hard thought required. A quick skim over the surface. Is that how you want to approach this eulogy?

Imagine how stupid you’ll feel, walking up to the podium, your by-the-numbers eulogy clasped in your sweaty hand, wondering what you’ll say now that you’ve just heard the funeral professional cover the same territory in his by-the-numbers eulogy.

Also, do you think a funeral is the forum for a dull and lifeless eulogy? Your talking resume eulogy will just suck the what little life there is out of the room.

Your response: Let’s spice it up with some accomplishments! Sounds like a good idea – a eulogy should celebrate a life. And it might actually work if the deceased accomplished anything worth celebrating. But have you considered that, on the whole, people are pretty much average, with half of us falling below the mean? From the distance of a eulogy, most lives sound banal and pointless; many are downright depressing. Who needs more depression at a funeral? It’s one thing if you’re celebrating his Nobel prize, quite another if you’re celebrating his GED. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but is that really how you want us to remember the deceased? Is that what his life boils down to?

This is the point where many a eulogist veers into Superlativeland. Surveying the mundane details of his life, you realize he hasn’t given you much to work with. So you pump it up. He didn’t just find a wife, he was the Most Loving Husband Ever! He didn’t just succeed in procreating, he was Father of the Year! He didn’t just manage to maintain a friendship or two, he was the Best Friend a Guy Could Ever Hope to Know! He might’ve trudged to church for Christmas and Easter and the occasional wedding or funeral, but for some reason God just couldn’t wait any longer before summoning him up to heaven. God couldn’t bear the thought of another day up there without his divine company.

As a kid, I attended a lot of funerals. My grandparents’ parents believed in big families, so there was plenty of dying going on by the time I came along. Sitting through these funerals, listening to the eulogists drone on and on, I learned that every dead person was a saint. In other words, saints die but assholes must live forever. I wanted to live forever, so I became an asshole. That explains a lot, doesn’t it?

Anyways, by now your eulogy has been reduced to a bone dry chronology of a dull life spiced up with unbelievable lies. You’ve been reduced to celebrating the deceased’s life by celebrating someone else’s.

That’s good enough for most eulogists, but if you’re not most eulogists you’ll discard your misbegotten words and start over with something much more personal: Why will we miss him? If it’s from the heart, as it should be, the question will be answered with why you will miss him.

Now you’re on the right track. Describe his qualities, illustrate them with telling anecdotes from your personal experience with him. But don’t let it devolve into an “all about me” eulogy. Your personal experiences should illustrate the eulogy, not be the eulogy. Never lose sight of the deceased. Step aside, let him be the star. It’s his turn. You’ll get your turn when you die.

The humor issue cannot be avoided. It must be faced head-on. Can a eulogy be funny? The answer is no. There are funny ways to die, but there is nothing funny about death. I don’t say this out of respect for the deceased, I say it out of respect for those they’ve left behind. Don’t make light of their pain. They’re mourning a loss, not looking for entertainment.

Sure, a deft eulogist can spin an amusing anecdote or two, the sort that elicits knowing smiles instead of cringes and nervous laughter, but most of us aren’t deft. We’re not that funny either, at least intentionally, so chances are (1) the deceased did nothing funny, at least intentionally, (2) if the deceased did anything funny, he did it unintentionally, which usually means that it was at his expense and will just make him look bad, and (3) you’ll think your personal anecdotes are funny when they’re not. Especially when the church is packed with weeping mourners. Talk about a tough crowd.

A good eulogy is a short eulogy. Five to ten minutes should do it. So if you’ve made it this far in your eulogy, you should start thinking about ending it.

Like so much else in a eulogy, the ending isn’t easy. How does one sum up a life without diminishing it? You can’t, unless your deceased was a simpleton. And who wants to hear that?

Many eulogies end on a religious or philosophical note. Be very careful. Do you really know what the deceased believed, or are you just projecting your beliefs onto him? Is it appropriate to assure us he’s in heaven if he was an atheist? Or if you are an atheist? What if his wife is a Buddhist? Is this a good time to ignite a religious or philosophical debate? Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when we presume what others believe.

Avoid the preaching and the pontificating. Instead, remember why we’re here. He’s dead. We’ll never see him again. But he made an impression, he touched our lives, he lives on in our hearts. We were lucky to know him. We will miss him. Goodbye, old friend.

So, you see, it isn’t easy to write a eulogy. And the hardest part is, if you’ve done it right, your words will slice through you as you read them, your eyes will water, your throat will constrict until you can no longer resist the tears. Consumed by sorrow, no longer capable of reading or speaking, you’ll just stand there wracked with sobs as the audience looks up, no longer hearing your words but instead experiencing the depths of your pain, pain that is, after all, the most eloquent eulogy.