We gather today in this Cathedral to celebrate the life of Brian Doyle and we offer our prayers, love and support to Mary, Lily, Joe, and Liam along with Brian’s parents, siblings, and the Miller Family.
In true Dr. Brian Doyle fashion, let me begin with a story. Brian and I have known each other over 20 years… and in November, shortly after he learned of his brain tumor, he walked into my office and said, “I have two items to discuss with you. The first item: I need to come clean with you, Edwin.” For those who don’t know me, you need to know that everyone calls me Ed and a few call me Eddie. With the exception of Sr. Mary Madell, my second grade teacher, no one else -- no one -- refers to me as Edwin. Except Brian Doyle. So, Brian continued, “I need to come clean with you. In my novel Martin Marten… the horse named Edwin… it’s in honor of you.” After I laughed a bit, he assured me it could have been worse… and I said, “How so?” He replied that instead of a horse, it could have been a donkey!
“The second item,” he said… and then there was a long pause…” Would you be my chaplain and walk with me and my family as we begin this journey?” At that time, little did they, or any of us, know what was ahead… But we began the journey.
If Brian were to write about these past 7 months, one of the essays might be titled “My afternoons with Jesus”. Over these past 7 months, I have lost count of how many times, mostly in the afternoon, Brian and Mary, and in the final weeks often with Lily, Joe, and Liam, we would have mass or a communion service at the hospital, at their dining room table, or at his bedside.
As a man of deep Catholic faith, Brian knew what he needed to provide him peace, grace, and strength: the Eucharist... Jesus. Each time he received the Eucharist, he was profoundly moved to tears as he would say the response, “Lord I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed”. Brian knew his faith, first taught to him by his parents, he knew his limits, he knew the love of God… grace upon grace, through the breaking of the bread…the Eucharist. On one afternoon, the hospice nurse said, “People usually die the way they lived their life.” These past 7 months, Brian never complained, NEVER, and somehow made it enjoyable and funny through the very worst parts. He was a grace-filled example for not only how to live, but how to die, and dying did not pierce Brian Doyle’s grace!
So… what is the measure of a man? This question has been asked over and again from the beginning of time, throughout history, by all of those who share our human mortality. What is the measure of a man? It is a good question; it is an important question; it is an enduring question; it is an ultimate question when we face the death of someone we know and love.
In his case, our answers to the question are immediate. Brian was over the moon in love with his wife, Mary, and a passionate father to his children. He was a good son to his Mom and Dad, and a great brother, and wild with affection for a whole gaggle of nieces, nephews, and cousins. The measure of a man can certainly be found in the love of family: love given and love received.
In Brian’s case, that love spilled over to touch and include many others: university faculty, staff, and students, fellow authors, editors and independent book store owners, religious men and women, young children and wise elders, and wine makers, to name a few… and thousands upon thousands of dedicated readers of his beloved Portland Magazine, essays of all types and topics, spiritual books of all shapes and sizes, and most recently, award-winning novels.
We are here today in this Cathedral with family and friends who grew up with Brian or who shared moments of his life: Holy Cross Priests and Brothers he affectionately referred to as his “boys”; friends both personal and professional, both great and small, both joyful and difficult. People who became his companions on life’s journey. The measure of a man can certainly be found in such people: those who made up his every day.
Not one of us among his family or friends believes that Brian’s life was long enough. And, yet — in the face of its brevity — we respond in faith, we who are believers, that the measure of a man is not found, as the Book of Wisdom states, “in terms of years.” It is, indeed, our faith that reminds us: “The just man, though he die early, shall be at rest. For the age that is honorable comes not with the passing of time.”
What a life he lived! Brian was destined to live a “whole life” and in the process, to do great things. And, yet, the measure of this man’s life was never his job, or award-winning essays, magazines, or books, as impressive as they all were. The measure of this man’s life can be found in his character, in his optimism, in his joy and great sense of humor, in his courage, in his passion for what was good and true and right, in his love of God and of family and of neighbor. Brian did not need a long life for us to measure. It was, rather, WE who needed his life to be longer.
The passing of anyone we love moves us to question: What is the measure of a man? And whatever your answer may be, whatever our answer may be, we can be sure that the measure of a man is not found in titles or length of days but, rather, in deeds done, in a life lived, in a love shared and in the belief that made it so. The Gospel of Matthew tells us today: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, those who mourn, the meek, the merciful, clean of heart, the peacemakers, the persecuted, the just”… these are the measure of a faith-filled man. For Brian, these were the ways he embraced his own advice to “be grace-filled” and to “live a whole life.”
I would like to close by reading to you a prayer that Brian wrote for one of his books. His prayer is titled “Last Prayer”.
Dear Coherent Mercy: thanks. Best life ever. Personally I never thought a cool woman would come close to understanding me, let alone understanding me but liking me anyway, but that happened! And You and I both remember that doctor in Boston saying polite but businesslike that we would not have children but then came three children fast & furious! And no man ever had better friends, and no man ever had a happier childhood and wilder brothers and a sweeter sister, and I was that rare guy who not only loved but liked his parents and loved sitting and drinking tea and listening to them! And You let me write some books that weren’t half bad, and I got to have a career that actually no kidding helped some kids wake up to their best selves, and no one ever laughed more at the ocean of hilarious things in this world, or gaped more in astonishment at the wealth of miracles everywhere every moment. I could complain a little right here about the long years of back pain and the occasional awful heartbreak, but Lord, those things were infinitesimal against the slather of gifts You gave mere me, a muddle of a man, so often selfish and small. But no man was ever more grateful for Your profligate generosity, and here at the very end, here in my last lines, I close my eyes and weep with joy that I was alive, and blessed beyond measure, and might well be headed back home to the incomprehensible Love from which I came, mewling, many years ago. But hey, listen, can I ask one last favor? If I am sent back for another life, can I meet my lovely bride again? In whatever form? Could we be hawks, or otters maybe? And can we have the same kids again if possible? And if I get one friend again, can I have my buddy Pete? He was a huge guy in this life—make him the biggest otter ever, and I’ll know him right away, okay? Thanks, Boss. Thanks from the bottom of my heart. See You soon. Remember—otters. Otters rule.
And so: amen.
"The Last Prayer" is from A Book of Uncommon Prayer: 100 Celebrations of the Miracle & Muddle of the Ordinary by Brian Doyle.
