My uncle Roger's arms

I recently officiated at the funeral for one of my beloved uncles, my dad's brother-in-law, Roger. He was 90, so he lived a good long life, just the past few years in a local nursing home, confined to a wheelchair. He and my Aunt Norma were married for 65 years, which is a pretty good run, in my book. My aunt and their three children and families were there, at the funeral, and I was honored, and a little nervous, to speak to them.

I have officiated at several weddings for family members in the past, but have never been asked to officiate at a funeral. I think that I would, in some ways, prefer to be one of the mourners, to be able to hear the promise of the gospel from someone else, to hold my memories and weep and rejoice. I would like to hear the insights of another preacher, reminding me of all the things I knew, telling me things I never knew. But when my cousin called me, I found that I couldn't say no. I was honored that she asked me, but still, a little nervous.

I knew my uncle Roger as a child knows an adult. I remembered how much he loved the water, his silly jokes, the way he would tease me or give me a kiss on the cheek. He taught me how to surface dive, when I was afraid to dive instead of jump from the deep end of the water. He had polio when he was young, I knew that, because he always walked with a limp. But I did not find out until just before his funeral that he had polio as a teenager—at 17—and was in the hospital for a whole year. According to his family, he never complained about it, always found something positive.