A Week Ago (the eulogy begins below)
A week and a half ago, on September 11th, my mom’s parents, my beloved grandparents, Bobby and Lynette Rigdon, were killed in a tragic car wreck in my hometown of Metter. A young man trying to pass another vehicle on Highway 46, outside of town, struck their car head-on. They did not suffer. They departed this world together.
I mention the details of the wreck because tragic moments contain lessons to be learned. Outside of emergencies, there is never really any need for anyone to drive that fast. My grandparents were approaching their elderly years, but they had years left to live and love. PaPa’s (pronounced PahPah) memory over the past few years had begun to slip. MaMa (pronounced MahMah) worried about him constantly. Other than some terrible bouts with kidney stones, she was doing fine. She was as lucid as ever and still energetic. She did not want to be left on earth without him. That was the kind of love they shared. In recent months (and maybe years), she had prayed that God would somehow take them together.
This loss for my mom’s family is earth-shattering. The suddenness of it is bad enough, but we hurt mainly because they were two of the finest people any of us ever knew. They were not perfect, but they loved people, they cared, and they constantly served their family, their church, and their community. They were full of integrity and wisdom — they were perfect to us. They were not just our grandparents, they were our elders and wisdom keepers, and I am proud to say that my family treated them like elders should be treated. We gathered at their house and we sought their counsel — they were the center of our family’s cosmos.
A week ago, we buried them both. Though this was heartbreaking, the outpouring of love from the Metter community was amazing, surreal. So many folks attended their visitation that the line to get in stretched halfway around the church. Their funeral filled the church’s fellowship hall as well as its sanctuary. The service was broadcasted to the overflow crowd. There were so many flowers, it looked like we were in a tropical jungle. My grandma would’ve loved that.
Their service was beautiful. Their pastor, Bo Fulginiti, who they loved very much, delivered a wonderful heartfelt tribute. My cousin Ramsey did a great job sharing some scripture, reading from MaMa’s bible devotional from the morning of September 11th, and reflecting on their impact. MaMa’s devotional made some rounds on social media. Ramsey discovered it the evening after the wreck, and she sent a picture to all of us cousins. When I read it, I got goosebumps. I won’t attempt to describe it here; you can see it for yourself. It was printed on the back of their funeral bulletin.
I was deeply honored when my family asked me to write and deliver their eulogy. This was a difficult task since this is the greatest loss I’ve experienced so far in life. I simply wanted to honor them, and I hope I did. I am sharing their eulogy because a few people have asked me to, but also because I believe that their example is inspiring. People so faithful, with such good intentions are rare.
Thank you for honoring them by reading.
The Eulogy
A few days ago, when the living room of my grandparents’ home was bustling with visitors bringing food and tearful hugs (lots of good food), I retreated, as introverts do, to PaPa’s quiet office. I sat in his chair where it became clear he had sat just hours before. Envelopes and stamps littered his desk — a bill from the hardware store for $7.12. Other items: an ancient plug-in calculator, a marble paperweight, his reading glasses. A large-print Bible on the left and a lovely vivid picture of him and his bride (the one above), smiling and holding each other, to the right. A pen, still clicked open, laid amongst the papers. I used that pen to write this.
Back in the living room, I inspected MaMa’s devotional from the morning of September 11th. I flipped through several pages of her Bible, which sat open on the table beside the recliner. Every page was alive with verses underlined and beautiful little notes in the margins — messages about family, how she and PaPa had been healed through prayer, and some asking God to help people.
When my social battery ran low again, I made my way to their bedroom, which was silent and still, and walked up the step to their bathroom. I recalled a time when I was a kid watching PaPa shave. I wanted to be like him so he and MaMa fashioned a fake razor for me. They both laughed as we mixed up shaving cream in a little bowl and applied it to my face with Papa’s old wooden shaving brush.
I examined my grandmother’s things, all as neat and orderly as they always had been. Baseball caps on top of a lamp she might throw on if she were cutting grass or if she had to go to the mailbox before she was able to fix her hair. Bright fingernail polish (she was not afraid of color), Estee Lauder perfume, lotion, and hairspray. The mirror where she had watched herself gracefully age. She was as gorgeous, inside and out, as she was 40 or 50 years ago.
We struggle with their loss not just because of the suddenness of it, but because it is a mighty one. We are suffering because all of our lives, they were so good to us. But we rejoice and celebrate their lives knowing they entered God’s kingdom together. Seeing all their things like they had left them just hours before, I was struck with a sense of how fleeting and fragile our lives on earth can be. Seeing the words underlined in MaMa’s devotional, that none of us are guaranteed tomorrow, but that knowing Jesus, we have no need to be afraid, allowed God’s peace to wash over me. I also thought of how the measure of a life is not in the material things we leave behind.
In Matthew, Jesus tells us that earthly treasures are destined to be destroyed by moths and vermin. Thieves may break in and steal them. My grandparents built a comfortable life for themselves — they were wonderful providers for our family — but I am much more interested in the stores of treasure they built for themselves in heaven.
We have a culture that tends to fixate on the wrong rewards: pleasure with no strings attached, shiny objects, entertainment above reflection, obsession with self-fulfillment. We hold the virtue of happiness above all others. Even our founders discussed the pursuit of happiness as a noble ideal to be sought after. Ralph Waldo Emerson, one of America’s great early thinkers and spiritual leaders, framed what he believed to be the main aim of life when he said, “The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate. To have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well.”
When eulogizing great people like my grandparents, it is easy to overlook their humanity — to deify them, to have them be angels. Even if they were angels to me, they were also human beings. They had fears and doubts and probably stifled passions and unmet goals. They loved game shows and board games; they could be competitive; they were capable of talking trash. If you’ve seen any of their photos from the 70s, you know they were fashionable and even hip at times. They were always well dressed even into their older age. They enjoyed earthly things, loved to travel with their friends, and had tempers — even if, later in life, they were masters at controlling them. If you played too much on MaMa’s bus route, you wouldn’t play for very long. When my friends and I would jump off the top of the waterslide into her pool, MaMa would come out of the kitchen scolding us like a mad hen. She scolded us because she loved us. PaPa loved NASCAR, even if he would fall asleep for half the race. I grew up with him as a diehard Dale Earnhardt fan — I don’t think it was ever the same for him after Dale died. One day while fishing with PaPa and his buddy Jerry Fordham, I heard PaPa say a cuss word and thought the world was coming to an end. He and MaMa knew how to spoil their grandkids with honeybuns and oatmeal cream pies. They were not only our grandparents; they were playful, funny, and energetic — they were our friends.
The point of this part of the reflection is to acknowledge that they were normal people. But measured against what is typical in our society,— rudeness, crudeness, dishonesty, betrayal, and selfishness — measured against these common traits, they were not normal. If we’re accepting Emerson’s criteria, if life is a challenge to be met, if service is the goal, then they met and far exceeded what it means to live a good life. In all of their dealings, they were honest and fair. They were always willing to help anyone at any time. I watched them help more than a couple scoundrels in my life and wondered why they were doing it. Doubters like me asked the same question of Jesus.
My grandparents lived to serve others. PaPa built dozens of homes in the Metter area and constructed one of our town’s most precious monuments, the chapel at Guido Gardens, where thousands of visitors make pilgrimage each year. Through his deaconship in this church, which he also built, literally and figuratively, he ministered to countless young people and inspired generations of families in his own meek and simple way. MaMa worked in the school system and drove a bus most of my life. So many children who are now upstanding adults in this town, as well as those who, like myself, left this town, were touched by her in one way or another. Many of them have reached out to me this week to tell me that.
Together, they served their church and community constantly. They provided a great example for all of us. They served their family, never forgetting to take time for one another, and most importantly, they did all of this in service to the will of God. They might’ve held doubts, but their faith in Jesus was unyielding; their discipline and dedication to the study of God’s word was never-ending; they sought out the wisdom offered through the teachings of Christ and applied it gracefully to their own lives. They offered that wisdom to my cousins and me and rejoiced when we accepted it. If we have redeemable qualities, they likely stem from PaPa’s patience and humility, and from MaMa’s tenderness, wisdom, and guidance. I was always amazed by their ability to say a hopeful thing when others only had nasty things to offer. They knew that to gossip was to miss the mark, and they made an effort to keep their aim true.
I found myself at times wishing they would say something negative, something edgy, or that they might share a glass of wine with me. But today, considering their example, knowing how long it has taken me to see the value of sobriety, I’m glad they didn’t. They wanted to show their family what it was like to walk in the light of God. And through it all, despite their humanness, they achieved that. They didn’t obsess over possessions; they didn’t need to gossip or use substances to feel good — they were full of joy, full of bliss because they knew how to count their blessings. They knew what a gift it was to be here with us.
Years ago, when I first made an attempt to write, I constructed some scathing reviews of this place (my hometown and church). Every writer has a conflicted relationship with the place they’re from, but looking back, I was young, idealistic, and dumb. I went about things the wrong way. I blamed Christianity for the failures of human people and saw the proverbial speck in my brother’s eye without noticing the log in my own. My grandparents, after reading an essay of mine, were not pleased. They asked me to sit with them, and in their patient yet straightforward way, they voiced their concerns. I cried knowing I had let them down. I tried explaining that they were never intended to be the target of my criticisms — other people in their community were. They explained to me that if I criticized their church, it was the same as criticizing them.
In those days, I had rejected the religion of my upbringing. I studied philosophy in college and thought I was smarter than anyone who had raised me. It took me years to understand that intellectualism, like materialism, can be a trap, and that the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God. We can rationalize all we want, but we can’t rationalize intuition. We can’t quantify faith.
MaMa was my shepherd through it all. She prayed for me daily and ministered to me, in her loving way, constantly. While I criticized the hypocrisy of religion, the truest Christians I’d ever known were in my life. I took their goodness for granted and missed the forest for the trees. Throughout that whole period of my life, my grandparents never failed to show me love. They had faith that God would provide a path for me, and when I came to visit, they greeted me with smiles. They were so kind and loving to my daughter, Lula. When we’d arrive at my mom’s house for a weekend, they’d open the gate, smiling widely, walk down the hill, and wrap her in their arms. I hope that will be a lasting image of them for Lula.
All of this leads me to consider the rarest quality in people — an idea nearly impossible for some to conceive but one that the gospel frames as a cornerstone of our faith — the ability to forgive. My grandparents forgave my blindness and had faith in me. They forgave the shortcomings of others, and, in maybe the greatest example of a healthy relationship, they did not keep a running tally against one another. They were not the kind to hold grudges or to let the negativity of other people rule over them. They were able to let go of such things because long ago, they gave their lives to Christ. They sacrificed their wills so that God’s will could be done, and they were guided to a beautiful life. It was my grandparents’ example that led me back to faith just as much as it was the image of Jesus hanging on the cross, brutalized and humiliated, saying, Father, forgive these people, they know not what they do.
Violence begets violence. Bigotry, bigotry. But love begets love, and it ripples outward through the generations. We’re better, more well-adapted, kinder people because they were. In life, they were useful, honorable, and compassionate. They lived well so that we might, and because of all this, they were also happy. We often say people like them are as good as gold. But gold is a material that can be squandered. They were far better than gold. God’s goodness was reflected through them like the sun’s light is reflected off the moon. That love will never be lost amongst the people they knew and touched.
We will miss them terribly. For the rest of my life on earth, I will miss their lovely voices. I will miss their laughs. I have faith that they are laughing today, smiling and holding one another. PaPa is building a place for us there; MaMa is tending the flowers. While we’re here, let’s remember their example, and let’s measure our lives by their standard of living, so that one day we can see them again. Until then, we ask God to hold them and keep them in the same loving way they held us.
To close, I’ll share Jesus’s words from Mark, which will always remind me of them.
You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead, they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.
This is such a beautiful tribute to your grandparents' love and shining light.
I am so sorry! You memorialized them beautifully. I'm sad that two wonderful lights in this world are no longer in it. Prayers for you and your family.