Eulogy
Our first date wasn't typical, but, then, that was Jason--he was full of surprises. I had imagined having dinner in some fancy chain restaurant, but we ended up sharing takeout and intimate conversation under the soft yellow glow of the solitary lamp that illuminated his quaint dining room. But what I actually remember most about that night wasn't the takeout or the conversation, as wonderful as it was. Rather, what I remember most was the way the night began.
Our first stop wasn't a restaurant or movie theatre. It was a local grocery store, where I watched Jason pick out what deodorant and toilet paper he liked (his favorite happened to be the one with the dancing bears, he admitted freely). He apologized for the rather personal beginning to our date but joked that if he didn't have these things, "tomorrow was going to be a really bad day." And I was instantly hooked. I admired his wit, his charm, that bright smile, and that laugh that was wholehearted and contagious-we all knew it.
Jason was a jokester, in fact, he was the goofiest and silliest person I’ve ever met, (Thank God for his ability to get me to laugh at myself and life’s trials). But Jason was, of course, more than just the person who made you laugh at the most inappropriate times (and at the most inappropriate things). He was more than the person who adamantly hated the electric slide and who always wore Gators boxers on a Florida game day. He was a cherished friend, a best friend, a soulmate, brother, son, uncle, grandson, cousin, and Godfather. And he was a brilliant teacher and Psychologist.
We could never forget that he was a Psychologist-he would never let us. In fact, I know that if he were here, he’d be giving a mini-lecture on Psychologist Carl Jung’s theories on death. Jason greatly admired Jung, and so, in his honor, I share with you a passage that I believe Jason would have found comforting:
“Carl Jung did not see the purpose of life as being the victory of light over dark. Rather, his own vision was one of wholeness, of all elements of the self moving in a complicated dance, in and out of balance, in an endless unfolding creative drama of growth. Unlike Freud and many other early theorists, Jung saw this drama of development as continuing right up until the final years, perhaps even in the final moments of one's life. Therefore, life did not merely end in death: it came to a point of completion, before crossing over into another experience of expression and development.”
Jung offers us a beautiful and peaceful illustration of death. Jung uses the word "completion" in describing death, yet, it is hard for many of us today to accept the fact that Jason's life was complete. When we imagine completion, we imagine, perhaps, an 89 year old man drifting peacefully off to his eternal rest. We imagine a man who spent 30 years or more working in his profession. We imagine a man who had a wife and a family.
Jason was only 28 years old. Our tendency is to look at his life and think, “He did not have enough time”. But if we reflect deeply on Jason's life, we come to see that his life was, indeed, full and complete, and even in the ways we thought impossible.
Jason may not have finished his degree or started his career. He may not have become the big business tycoon, or the brilliant tenured professor he certainly could have been, but he had a career, nonetheless. He was a teacher.
He inspired the lives of hundreds of students at the University of Delaware, where he taught several courses in Psychology. Teaching was becoming Jason’s passion, and his positive influence on those he taught clearly demonstrates the degree of professionalism and enthusiasm with which he lived.
When asked what they thought of Jason’s teaching, his students often replied with an enthusiasm not unlike the enthusiasm with which Jason taught them: One student remarked, “This guy is great! I could have cared less about psychology, but after listening to him teach, I understand how cool Psychology is.” Another: “He is young, but he teaches like he has been doing it for a long time.” And my personal favorite remark: “He was totally down to earth and met us at our level. I’m a guy, and even though all the girls were drooling all over him the entire time, I was able to do really well in the class because he took the time to help each and every one of us.” Jason was empathetic and compassionate.
And in many ways, he was my teacher, and he was your teacher. He taught me how to drive Manual, and he taught me how to make a grilled cheese sandwich and a Low-Country broil, he taught me about the significance of drafting in NASCAR, and he taught me how to pump my own gas, (I’m from New Jersey). Most importantly, he taught me about faith, hope, and love-unconditional love. It was the first time in my whole life that I truly knew these things.
So Jason may not have been Dr. Jones, but he was Dr. Jones to you and to me and to many others. Jason’s career may have been short-lived, but it was filled with ardor and success. And in that sense, it was complete.
And as for having a wife and family, I believe he did achieve these life goals. There wasn’t a ring or a ceremony, but we were married in our hearts, and there wasn’t a newborn child, a little Jason Jr., but there was a sweet beagle named Bailey and another named Buffy who knew Jason as “Daddy.”
Measure completion not in the number of years, but in the number of smiles exchanged, the number of jokes shared, the number of times he’s spoken the words “fired up” or “Michael Waltrip.” Measure completion in the number of time he’s eaten Arby’s, or in the number of times you’ve thought of him, out of the blue, just because you missed being near him. When you think of completion, think of the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson, “It is not the length of life, but the depth of life.”
Our last date wasn’t typical, but then, I suppose it was typical for us.
We found ourselves in a local grocery store, where I watched Jason pick out what deodorant and toilet paper he liked. (Of course, this time I already knew). I remember his smile that night-it was as bright as ever. And I hadn’t felt more comfortable embraced in his arms.
And we said our goodbyes that night, huddled close, sharing intimate conversation under the soft yellow glow of a solitary street lamp that illuminated us there--in a moment of completion.
Our first stop wasn't a restaurant or movie theatre. It was a local grocery store, where I watched Jason pick out what deodorant and toilet paper he liked (his favorite happened to be the one with the dancing bears, he admitted freely). He apologized for the rather personal beginning to our date but joked that if he didn't have these things, "tomorrow was going to be a really bad day." And I was instantly hooked. I admired his wit, his charm, that bright smile, and that laugh that was wholehearted and contagious-we all knew it.
Jason was a jokester, in fact, he was the goofiest and silliest person I’ve ever met, (Thank God for his ability to get me to laugh at myself and life’s trials). But Jason was, of course, more than just the person who made you laugh at the most inappropriate times (and at the most inappropriate things). He was more than the person who adamantly hated the electric slide and who always wore Gators boxers on a Florida game day. He was a cherished friend, a best friend, a soulmate, brother, son, uncle, grandson, cousin, and Godfather. And he was a brilliant teacher and Psychologist.
We could never forget that he was a Psychologist-he would never let us. In fact, I know that if he were here, he’d be giving a mini-lecture on Psychologist Carl Jung’s theories on death. Jason greatly admired Jung, and so, in his honor, I share with you a passage that I believe Jason would have found comforting:
“Carl Jung did not see the purpose of life as being the victory of light over dark. Rather, his own vision was one of wholeness, of all elements of the self moving in a complicated dance, in and out of balance, in an endless unfolding creative drama of growth. Unlike Freud and many other early theorists, Jung saw this drama of development as continuing right up until the final years, perhaps even in the final moments of one's life. Therefore, life did not merely end in death: it came to a point of completion, before crossing over into another experience of expression and development.”
Jung offers us a beautiful and peaceful illustration of death. Jung uses the word "completion" in describing death, yet, it is hard for many of us today to accept the fact that Jason's life was complete. When we imagine completion, we imagine, perhaps, an 89 year old man drifting peacefully off to his eternal rest. We imagine a man who spent 30 years or more working in his profession. We imagine a man who had a wife and a family.
Jason was only 28 years old. Our tendency is to look at his life and think, “He did not have enough time”. But if we reflect deeply on Jason's life, we come to see that his life was, indeed, full and complete, and even in the ways we thought impossible.
Jason may not have finished his degree or started his career. He may not have become the big business tycoon, or the brilliant tenured professor he certainly could have been, but he had a career, nonetheless. He was a teacher.
He inspired the lives of hundreds of students at the University of Delaware, where he taught several courses in Psychology. Teaching was becoming Jason’s passion, and his positive influence on those he taught clearly demonstrates the degree of professionalism and enthusiasm with which he lived.
When asked what they thought of Jason’s teaching, his students often replied with an enthusiasm not unlike the enthusiasm with which Jason taught them: One student remarked, “This guy is great! I could have cared less about psychology, but after listening to him teach, I understand how cool Psychology is.” Another: “He is young, but he teaches like he has been doing it for a long time.” And my personal favorite remark: “He was totally down to earth and met us at our level. I’m a guy, and even though all the girls were drooling all over him the entire time, I was able to do really well in the class because he took the time to help each and every one of us.” Jason was empathetic and compassionate.
And in many ways, he was my teacher, and he was your teacher. He taught me how to drive Manual, and he taught me how to make a grilled cheese sandwich and a Low-Country broil, he taught me about the significance of drafting in NASCAR, and he taught me how to pump my own gas, (I’m from New Jersey). Most importantly, he taught me about faith, hope, and love-unconditional love. It was the first time in my whole life that I truly knew these things.
So Jason may not have been Dr. Jones, but he was Dr. Jones to you and to me and to many others. Jason’s career may have been short-lived, but it was filled with ardor and success. And in that sense, it was complete.
And as for having a wife and family, I believe he did achieve these life goals. There wasn’t a ring or a ceremony, but we were married in our hearts, and there wasn’t a newborn child, a little Jason Jr., but there was a sweet beagle named Bailey and another named Buffy who knew Jason as “Daddy.”
Measure completion not in the number of years, but in the number of smiles exchanged, the number of jokes shared, the number of times he’s spoken the words “fired up” or “Michael Waltrip.” Measure completion in the number of time he’s eaten Arby’s, or in the number of times you’ve thought of him, out of the blue, just because you missed being near him. When you think of completion, think of the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson, “It is not the length of life, but the depth of life.”
Our last date wasn’t typical, but then, I suppose it was typical for us.
We found ourselves in a local grocery store, where I watched Jason pick out what deodorant and toilet paper he liked. (Of course, this time I already knew). I remember his smile that night-it was as bright as ever. And I hadn’t felt more comfortable embraced in his arms.
And we said our goodbyes that night, huddled close, sharing intimate conversation under the soft yellow glow of a solitary street lamp that illuminated us there--in a moment of completion.