Don’t tell lies about me when I die.

I think I’m going to die young. Please hear me: I don’t want to meet an early demise… I just think I probably will. We can blame it on the casual nihilism of certain sects of country folk, or all the rock music I’ve delighted in through the years, or the fact that few people in my family have made it out of their fifties alive. 

Regardless, it’s how I feel.

And when I do die, I’d like it to be my final request that whoever gets tasked with the unfortunate duty of eulogizing me skips all the usual lies told at funerals. I don’t have time for the bullshit in life, and I suspect I won’t have it in death, either.

Some tips:

Please don’t say that my husband Scott and I met in high school and had a perfect marriage.

Only one of those things is true. Say that our marriage was sometimes sublime and sometimes fraught and that there were days we sat in a therapist’s office convinced we weren’t going to make it. But say that we did make it and that we were glad we did because we always loved each other. 

Please don’t say I always had a kind word on my lips for my fellow human.

Say that I said “fuck” (a lot) more than was appropriate in polite company and that while I did like most people I encountered, outward expressions of caring were never my strong suit. Say that if I did say something nice to you, I meant it, as the giving and receiving of compliments always felt weird.

Please don’t say that my boys were my entire world.

Instead, say that I was a whole person — a daughter, a Southerner, a best friend, a volunteer, an American, a mother, a feminist, a wife, a Christian, a career woman, a writer — and that I didn’t think it was possible to have an existence based on one thing. But do say (please, please say), that my fellas were hands-down the best part of my world. The very best part. 

Please don’t say that I loved the Lord.

It’s too abstract. Say that I served a real man whose grace was radical and unorthodox and ceaseless, and that while I did my best to live by what he taught me, some days my best didn’t feel good enough. Say that I made it a point to be deliberately grateful every day that he dealt in forgiveness.

Please don’t say that I’m preceded in death by my “adopted parents” Kenney and Sherry.

Sakes alive… please don’t say that. Say that, yeah, I was adopted, but blood is overrated and the only thing that ever really mattered here was that I inherited Sherry’s warped sense of humor and Kenney’s penchant for inward reflection. Say that my parents picked me out, while the rest of y’all’s parents were stuck with you. That’s what my mom always said. 

Please don’t say that the congregation has prepared refreshments following the service.

Say that instead of picking at funeral potatoes you’re heading the bar to drink white wine and brown liquor and listen to Steve Earle. Say that you’ll probably make everyone stay out way later than they had intended to and that you’ll probably make an ass of yourself on the bar/dance floor/security camera out back. 

Say that I’m gone now, but y’all aren’t… so speak your truth the way that I would, and get to living while the living’s still good.