Text: The story of Jonah
As we hear the story of Jonah and the message of Doug, I ask that we please consider the interplay of our individual, personal choices and circumstances and of the social, cultural influences that determine our lives.
I wish doing this funeral were easy. I wish that Doug hadn't been in prison and hadn't died at age 60. I wish this weren't the most difficult funeral I'd ever done. But, as my Dad sometimes says, "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride" (That's in the Bible somewhere, isn't it? Proverbs maybe? Oh, turns out he learned it from his Mom, my Grandma).
No, what we have here today is reality - cold, harsh reality. The reality of a dead body, a life cut short, potential not achieved. The reality of a criminal - even if were mindful that, in some ways, there but for the grace of God go I. The reality of what drugs and disease can do. The reality of a person whose nature was at times very abrasive and off-putting. The reality that his actions negatively impacted many people. The reality that the justice system doesn't always live up to its name. The reality that some of us were prepared to receive him back, that even with a terminal diagnosis the Bureau of Prisons said "No, we will not grant him a medical release." The reality that now there's an empty place in our homes and hearts where for 20 years we expected Doug would return. Cold, harsh reality.
But here's what is also real: Chances are good that, one day, you and I will find ourselves locked up, shut out, or closed off. Now that's highly unlikely to be in either a federal penitentiary or the belly of a big fish (the correct translation; not "whale," despite popular use).
No, much more likely is being trapped in some cruel disease. or finding ourselves alone when our friends have passed. Or being unemployed and unable to find work. Or taking an unpopular stand on an issue. Or being out of money. Or disabled and incapacitated.
In that moment, the content of our character will be tested. And, frankly, I want to demonstrate the kind of resiliency, endurance, and hope that Doug did while praying for the big fish to spew him out on dry land.
I can only say what I know and saw: in the midst of the cold, harsh reality known as prison and a 27-year sentence, Doug never gave up. He stayed extremely physically fit. He took course after course and class after class to develop his mind and skills. He assisted those around him from his seat in the law library -- so much so that he came to be known as the "chief justice." He kept in constant contact with the family and friends he had left. And he worked tirelessly on his own case - sometimes so much to make the rest of us crazy.
In a place of darkness and despair, with a sentence that seemed like forever, Doug clung to every ray of light and hope he could find. Each small, kind act meant so much to him. The little things in life were a delight.
While still walking free among us, he was a complex, contradictory, and compassionate person. he was "very protective of little people, old people, and people he cared about," said one of his best friends. He was brutally honest and had a very keen intuitive sense of people's thoughts and feelings. He was incredibly smart, tenacious, and stubborn. He was a loyal friend. He was committed to and connected with his family. A lawyer once told us that Doug would likely have never been apprehended and convicted had he moved far away. He tried it, but couldn't stand being away from family and friends.
If you were able to get beyond the tough-guy, gruff, wounded exterior, Doug was a sensitive, fragile, and vulnerable man. He loved animals and the outdoors. He was adventurous and generous. One of his prison buddies wrote thanking him profusely for introducing him to softball. Doug had since left that prison, but this guy had kept the team going. With him hitting several home runs, they went undefeated. And he didn't even know he could play until Doug encouraged him. Now he'd found something that would keep him out of trouble.
And now the big fish has released Doug back to us and to God. I happened to be sitting next to a man reading his obituary yesterday. I asked if he knew him. "I don't think so," he said. "I knew someone by that name 20 years ago, but he looked different and he was a drug dealer."
So he was. He was also my uncle, who would take me outside in the spring and fall - when no one else in my family had an interest, and we would canoe all the nooks and crannies of the lake where my grandparents lived, exploring all the inlets and rivers, portaging the canoe, or parking it and hiking. I loved him and I'll miss him.
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