Friday, July 20, 2018

Eulogy for James Mulley Jr

Below is the eulogy I gave at my dad's funeral on July 20, 2018:

A couple of people have counseled me this week to let grief have its way with me.  Grief, it seems, is its own best remedy.  So I’m going to take their advice and not try too hard to hold it together.  I may need to pause from time to time, but don’t worry, I’ll get through it.

These are a few of the things that I admired most about my dad:

His contentment.  Dad was a thankful man who rarely complained about his lot in life.  It wasn’t that he was unduly optimistic - just that he simply accepted and found genuine satisfaction in God’s provision in all aspects of his life.  He exhibited this virtue well beyond the obvious category of material possessions.  When, in my younger days, I would confess my envy of those who surpassed me in athletic and intellectual ability, he would simply say, “My son, no matter how good you are at something, there will always be someone better at it. Do the best you can.”  As this teaching sunk in over the years, I believe it enabled me to do just that, and to be thankful for it.  Sometimes the simplest things would bring him the most pleasure, such as napping in the sun on the lanai of the condo in Florida, playing solitaire on his computer, and organizing his stamp collection. In his final years, months, and days, he even accepted the reality of his failing body with grace and peace. Fittingly, his last word to me was “OK”.

His persistence.  I have known few people in my life that were as persevering and hard-working as my father.  Some of my favorite memories are of him working on various projects around the house. He was always building or fixing something, engaged in his labor with such intensity that he wouldn’t even stop to wipe the sweat dripping off the end of his nose.  In the two years that we worked together at General Electric, his colleagues could not stop singing his praises to me. Two of my favorites were “Jim accomplishes more in 8 hours than most people around here do in a week - best 9-to-5 guy I’ve ever seen” and “Wait, you’re Jim Mulley’s son??  Seriously, Jim is the nicest guy I have ever met at GE.”  The stories he told us about his years of negotiations with the Navy and Air Force became the stuff of legend in our family, and he never really shook these old habits in retirement.  One of his favorite activities down in Fort Myers was going to yard sales.  I always felt sorry for some of the people that we met - he could practically steal things from people while making them think they got a great deal. The world measures career success in terms of the prestigiousness of one’s job, but I think a better measure would consider the total distance covered in a career. Some of us were privileged to start our careers standing on the shoulders of people like my dad.  He was barely a teenager when he started riding a bike around Boston delivering camera film.  After being honorably discharged from the Navy in San Diego on his birthday in 1949, he stuck out his thumb and hitchhiked across the country in three days, went to bed, and the very next day started shoveling coal into a furnace at GE’s gear plant in Lynn.  Forty-two years later, he retired from a white collar management position in the same company, only to return again as a consultant for the next fifteen years. He was unstoppable.

His marriage.  I can honestly say that my parents had the best marriage I’ve ever known.  Dad often counseled us in our marriages to “never let the sun go down on your anger” (a quote from the book of Ephesians).  My performance in this regard has been spotty at best (just ask Sue), but his was almost perfect.  Case in point: Just a few weeks ago when I was with Mom & Dad in Florida, I heard them bickering in their bedroom just before turning in for the night.  The battle eventually went silent for a few seconds until Dad said, “I love you, Honey” to which Mom responded in kind.  My brother Jim overheard a similar conversation a couple of weeks before that one. Fittingly, these were also the very last words that he spoke to Mom before passing away.  For our entire lives, my siblings and I have had a front row seat to an advanced course in energetic-yet-loving conflict resolution.  Dad only ever had eyes for one woman.  Even after 68 years of marriage, the affection he showed for my mom was enough to make newlyweds blush.

And finally, his faith.  I’d like to start with some history of the legacy of faith in our family.  It’s a summary of details that I have heard over the years from Mom and Dad and various relatives.
Sixty-something years ago, a woman strolled into a church in Everett, Massachusetts with two children in tow.  On that Sunday, and many that followed, she heard a familiar story, but this time it lit a fire in her heart.  It was the story of an infinitely powerful and infinitely loving Father who created the universe with such beauty that it filled her with wonder.  A story of a suffering Son who took the penalty for her sin so that she could be right with the Father.  A story of a Spirit that could give her comfort beyond her wildest expectations, even during the extreme suffering she experienced near the end of her short life.  This is an excerpt from a letter she wrote to my father in late 1964 as she was dying from cancer: “God is so good to me. I am unworthy!  I have no fear. I feel the loving arms of our Savior around me and peace I’ve never experienced before! How wonderful it is to say ‘our Savior’”.  She was speaking of course, of Jesus Christ, for whom she was consumed with love and reverence. Her name was Dorothy Howell, my Aunt Dot and my father’s sister.  Though she passed away when I was only two years old, God used her in a powerful way to change the spiritual course of our family for all eternity.  Through her witness, my Mom & Dad and many others came to love God as she did.

My parents’ faith became the rock upon which our family stood, a beacon of hope that constantly lit our paths and led us back home, an anchor that kept us from drifting into danger, and a magnet by which God drew us into relationship with himself.  Through our sorrow and happiness, our rebellion and compliance, our failure and success, Dad’s stubborn faith in God was a safe haven that enfolded us in truth and love.  Like his sister before him, Dad was so ready to meet his Maker face to face, and now he has.  Fittingly, his last words to my daughter Elizabeth were “If I don’t see ya, I’ll see ya in paradise”.  We look forward to that day.

James Mulley Jr. (no middle name), 1928 to 2018 to Eternity.  Thanks be to God, a life well-lived.

4 comments:

  1. Thanks for sharing this, Rich. My mom also passed away this year, rather suddenly though she was 88 years old, and i still can't wrap my head around the fact that she's gone. She also didn't have a middle name :-) (Her dutch father felt it was unnecessary and just meant you had more to write). I join you in walking thru the grief of this strange stage of life....losing our parents, and launching our children. (Not to mention, watching our own bodies start to shout the effects of aging!). Love to you and Sue, your mom, and extended family.

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    1. Thanks Lori, and my condolences on the loss of your mom. I have indeed been experiencing a strange concoction of grief and joy this week. The former for obvious reasons and the latter as i have recalled with my family how great a man he was and reflected on the hope of eternal life.

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  2. Rich, this is an inspiring read. It makes me recall some of the glimpses of your father I received when I occasionally met him in the 70s and 80s. Some of those times were when he took us to West Congregational, then treated me to dinner at your house. Yes, he was usually busy fulfilling the duties of father, husband, and leader of his house. That busyness was a good role model to me. And I also remember, as a guest in his house, he would engage me in conversation, as though the friend of his son was also someone important.

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    1. Doug, i was so self-absorbed in those days that i didn't notice how great a guy he was to my friends. Thanks for sharing these memories.

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