![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
What makes a life successful?
She lived a long life. Not many people get that close to a century of living. Most of it was active and healthy. Fifteen years ago, she was still preserving her home-grown fruits every summer. Slower, mind you. Even a spry octogenarian isn't as young as she once was.
Do we measure success only in years? We often seem to, for civilizations, for monuments, for works of art - but not usually for people.
She overcame hardship in her life. Her mother died when she was ten, and she and her siblings were split up and farmed out to relatives from Ontario to Florida. Finding her brothers again when they were all in their sixties - that was a success. She survived the Depression, quite handily in fact. Her husband was a hard worker in a good trade and she was skilled at making ends meet.
Is success the simple act of making a comfortable life for oneself? Pulling oneself up by the bootstraps is often touted as success, especially if starting from nothing.
She contributed to her church, with her time and her money and her belief. She was a pillar of the Home League and sang in the Songsters. She was above reproach in every way. There's a success in living up to your own ideals and to those of your community. There's a success in having a minister intone, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant," at your funeral, and have everyone there quite certain that you deserve the praise. There will be no lies in her eulogy, for there will be no need to gloss over the truth of her life.
Yes, there's a success in that.
And there's a success in being laid to rest next to the man you shared more than three-quarters of a century with. There's a success in reaching a venerable age and having, not children with a duty, but grandchildren of second cousins, step up to look after you. There's a success in being remembered fondly by two little girls, distant relatives by most measures, who called you "aunt" and knew of your life and were sad at your death.
Go gently into that good night, Aunt Amy. Uncle Frank is waiting for you, not so very far ahead. You achieved success in the places you sought it - in your church, in your home, in your friendships, in the lives you touched right to the very end. No one could ask more of you.
Well done, thou good and faithful servant.
She lived a long life. Not many people get that close to a century of living. Most of it was active and healthy. Fifteen years ago, she was still preserving her home-grown fruits every summer. Slower, mind you. Even a spry octogenarian isn't as young as she once was.
Do we measure success only in years? We often seem to, for civilizations, for monuments, for works of art - but not usually for people.
She overcame hardship in her life. Her mother died when she was ten, and she and her siblings were split up and farmed out to relatives from Ontario to Florida. Finding her brothers again when they were all in their sixties - that was a success. She survived the Depression, quite handily in fact. Her husband was a hard worker in a good trade and she was skilled at making ends meet.
Is success the simple act of making a comfortable life for oneself? Pulling oneself up by the bootstraps is often touted as success, especially if starting from nothing.
She contributed to her church, with her time and her money and her belief. She was a pillar of the Home League and sang in the Songsters. She was above reproach in every way. There's a success in living up to your own ideals and to those of your community. There's a success in having a minister intone, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant," at your funeral, and have everyone there quite certain that you deserve the praise. There will be no lies in her eulogy, for there will be no need to gloss over the truth of her life.
Yes, there's a success in that.
And there's a success in being laid to rest next to the man you shared more than three-quarters of a century with. There's a success in reaching a venerable age and having, not children with a duty, but grandchildren of second cousins, step up to look after you. There's a success in being remembered fondly by two little girls, distant relatives by most measures, who called you "aunt" and knew of your life and were sad at your death.
Go gently into that good night, Aunt Amy. Uncle Frank is waiting for you, not so very far ahead. You achieved success in the places you sought it - in your church, in your home, in your friendships, in the lives you touched right to the very end. No one could ask more of you.
Well done, thou good and faithful servant.
