The Gospel of Mark

I never met Mark in person. I first came to know him through photos and stories shared by his mother, Sue. Sue is tall blonde and fabulous, with a smile as brilliant and complex as her home state, California, and a heart as big as the sun, so it stands to reason her son would have a spirit larger than life. And he did.

Though I’d seen Mark, his own tall blonde good looks and brilliant smile, in photos, I first saw his physical body surreally buried up to his waist in a rich wood casket, dressed in a football jersey with a rosary clutched to his chest, surrounded by family all barely holding back their tears. Mark had fought a brutal and courageous battle with cancer. And lost.

Generally, people are shy and thoughtful at funerals. But not at Mark’s. The hospice spiritual minister, who had come to know Mark in his final days, lead the service and after opening with hymns, Bible readings and thoughtful words, he turned the service over to the people attending. One of Mark’s nephews played a heartbreaking song, and Mark’s stepsister, her grief shining through her red-rimmed eyes, spoke of his sense of humor, his great heart and his love for football – he’d wear the jersey of nearly any team all for the love of the game. Others close to the family spoke, then the minister invited anyone attending to speak.

The first speaker, a vibrant dark-haired young man in his 30s, bounded up to the lectern. He was one of Mark’s many best friends and, in a booming voice, told of Mark’s penchant for nicknaming everyone he met – after all, who needs a name when a nickname works so much better? He described how Mark always came to work twenty minutes before start time so he could back the biggest, baddest, blackest truck into the best parking spot on the lot.

Another spoke, then another and another – each story more eloquent than the one that came before. Finally, a gray-haired man walked to the lectern to tell of Mark’s relationship with his best friend in high school, the man’s son. Their nicknames were “Mutt” and “Jeff.” They played football together: Mark was the tall, strong and talented first-string player, while “Mutt” was the short, scrawny third-string player; but Mark always protected “Mutt” no matter what was going on in the game. Sadly, “Mutt” had also passed away, just a year ago. And his father believed the two were up in heaven together playing football as he spoke: “Mutt” and “Jeff.”

So young, Mark was just in his 30s so his friend had been young, too. One woman had to get up and leave, she was crying so profoundly; even the men lost control of their tears at this point.

Finally, the last speaker stood up to talk, another of Mark’s many vibrant handsome young friends. I’d noticed him earlier; he seemed a little out of place, a little uncomfortable about being there, as though he didn’t know many people. But he had an engaging smile and a booming voice and shared all kinds of funny anecdotes about Mark. After the heart-wrenching story we’d just heard, it felt good to laugh. Finally he ended his talk by explaining how he knew Mark; he was the “vending guy” at Mark’s place of work. And he’d come up to talk about Mark partly to share his anecdotes, but also so he could tell us: “And if the vending guy comes to your funeral, you know you’ve led a great life.”

So, here is what I learned from Mark Lucas:

1) Ministry is the people in your life.
2) Enthusiasm is everything.
3) There really is football in heaven.
4) Who needs a name, when a nickname will do.
5) If I can get the vending guy to speak at my funeral, along with 50 of my closest family and friends, then I know I’ll have lived a great life.
6) Owning the biggest, baddest, blackest truck on the lot gets you to heaven.
7) And, last, but not least, everyone in Mark’s family and all of his friends should know that Mark’s life will live on long past his passing from his earth.

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