-->
A eulogy delivered on Saturday, July 18, 2015 at St. Jude
the Apostle Church, North Tonawanda, New York
Good
afternoon. For those of you I have not met, my name is Len Niehoff and I have
the honor of being married to Bob and Sally Guido’s daughter, Lisa, one of the
many grandchildren of our beloved Elizabeth Amici Guido Amato, whose life we
celebrate today.
I
want to begin by acknowledging Teddy and her family for all that they did to
care for Liz, particularly toward the end of her time with us. You were blessed
to have her in your life. She was blessed to have you in hers.
Now,
with all of these children and grandchildren and long-time friends present, you
may wonder why I, of all people, am delivering the eulogy and the truth is that
I’m not entirely sure. Many years ago, Liz asked me if I’d do it and of course
I agreed although I didn’t quite understand the request. She confirmed it with
me later, almost every time she saw me, and so here I am, because, as you know,
Liz’s spirit was and remains an irresistible force of nature.
As
you also know, Liz had a splendid sense of humor so maybe this was her last
great practical joke on me and on all of you. But I hope not and I don’t think
so. I think she may have been on to something when she asked me to do this.
I’ll return to that possibility later.
Like
many of you, I was present just a few months ago when we gathered to celebrate Liz’s
one-hundredth birthday. Given the occasion, there was a great deal of talk
about the sheer length of her life. This is understandable: one hundred years
is a long time for any human being to spend on planet earth.
In
fact, one hundred years is so long that it may be hard to grasp except as
abstraction. I thought a little hard data might help with that. So here we go.
Liz
was born in 1915—as were Billie Holliday and Frank Sinatra. When Liz was 18,
Franklin Delano Roosevelt was still in his first 100 days as President. Liz’s life
spanned seventeen Presidents, more
than a third of the total forty-four.
Just
about every major upheaval in the twentieth century occurred during Liz’s
lifetime: both World Wars, the Russian Revolution, the Chinese Revolution, the
Great Depression, the Korean War, the Vietnamese War, the wars in the Middle
East, the end of apartheid in South Africa, the raising—and the
disassembling—of the Berlin Wall, the dissolution of the Soviet Union, and the terrorist
attacks of 911.
Her
life included many things we take for granted now but that must have seemed miraculous
then: the first motion picture, the first Disney cartoon, the first television
show, the first Elvis and Beatles concerts, the first computers, the birth of
the Internet, Lindbergh’s flight across the Atlantic, Neil Armstrong’s walk on
the moon, and the recent missions to mars.
She
witnessed lots of change for the better: the passage of child labor laws and
the civil rights laws, Jackie Robinson breaking the color barrier in major
league baseball, the development of vaccines for tuberculosis and polio, the discovery
of penicillin, and the constitutional amendment that gave Liz the right to
vote. It is a good thing that got worked out because if they hadn’t given her the right I’m quite sure she
would have taken it.
But
if none of that gets your attention, then try this. If we think of our country
as becoming a sovereign nation in 1787 with the ratification of the
Constitution, then the life of Elizabeth Amici Guido Amato encompassed almost
44% of the history of the United States of America. Let me say that again:
Liz’s life encompassed roughly 44% of our nation’s entire history.
That
is a long life, indeed. And Liz was fortunate to share much of that life with
her beloved sisters. There was Lucy, who Liz adored and who passed from this
life to the next in her late seventies. There was Susie, who, like Liz, left us
at age 100. And of course there is Gerry, who we are honored and delighted to
have with us here today. I’d invite you to pause for a second to notice
something that few, if any, other families could say: from these four women of
this single generation, you have been blessed with more than 370 collective
years of love, affection, care, and memory. It is a remarkable and singular
gift you have all been given.
When I was thinking about Liz’s life in preparation
for today I remembered a sermon that Dr. King delivered in 1960. It is one of
his most famous sermons, and it is called “The Three Dimensions of a Complete
Life.” I think it offers some insight into why Liz’s life was so rich and
complete, why she has been and will continue
to be such a powerful influence on all of us, and why although she may have
passed from our midst she will never pass from our hearts and minds.
In
that sermon, Dr. King said that a complete and fulfilled life has three
dimensions: length, breadth, and height.
Now,
Dr. King did not mean length in the same way I’ve been using it. In his view,
the length of life was not measured by its duration. Rather, he thought the
length of life was measured by how well you developed yourself as a human being
in the time you had and despite the obstacles you faced. Liz had a very long
life in this sense as well.
Let’s
talk for a moment about all of the challenges that might have prevented Liz
from having a happy and fulfilled life. It is a daunting list. Indeed, it makes
me feel pretty wimpy in comparison.
As
I noted, Liz was born into a world in which women did not even have the
vote—and where the idea that a woman might have a career was almost
unthinkable. But circumstances pressed Liz to seek out opportunities and she secured
a real estate license and became a successful broker. She must have been
incredibly gifted at this—I suspect she could sell just about anyone just about
anything—and I’m confident that if I had know her during this period she would have
committed me to buying a bungalow in North Tonawanda instead of delivering this
eulogy.
Along
the way, Liz faced more than her share of troubles and concerns. In the early
going, finances were tight. Over the years, she had bouts with life-threatening
illnesses. Liz faced those problems bravely and never allowed them to define
her.
But
Liz did not just face challenges—she faced tragedy. While Liz was still a child,
her mother and infant brother perished during a flue epidemic. She watched her
husbands Michael Guido and Jim Amato slip through her fingers and pass from
this life to the next. She lost her beloved son, Michael, and treasured grandchild,
Karen, long before anyone would have expected their time to come.
I
suspect that psychologists would say that the most traumatizing experiences you
can have in life are to lose a parent while you a still a child, to lose a
spouse, to lose a son or daughter, and to lose a grandchild. If, as a result of
all of these tragedies, Liz had become inconsolable, withdrawn, and bitter who
among us would not understand?
But
through all of this Liz sustained an indomitable spirit, a relentless passion
for life, a dazzling resilience, and a restless intellectual curiosity. She and
Jim Amato traveled the world, bringing back treats and tchotchkes for her
grandchildren. Lisa tells me she has a distinct memory of purses made from
coconuts that came back from Mexico. She hosted every family holiday party—and,
as far as I can tell, fed just about everyone who ever showed up at her
doorstep.
She
learned American Sign Language because someone she loved knew it. She bowled
and golfed. I am told that she played bingo in a way that seemed more intent on
extending the game and giving her more time with her pals than it was on victory.
At her birthday party one of the men who hosted the events she attended told me
“I would go over to her and look at her card and say 'Liz you have a bingo!' And
she wouldn’t care.”
She
had a glorious—and sometimes randy—sense of humor and, well, enjoyed reading slightly
racy novels. I remember when I first met Liz. She was in her eighties. Lisa had
told me about her grandmother’s fondness for steamy romance books. I didn’t
believe it until I saw a large stack of bodice-rippers occupying a corner of
her TV room.
But,
of course, Liz would tell you that her greatest source of joy and pride and
delight was her family. And what a family it is. Look around you and do the
math with me. Five children, fourteen grandchildren, twenty-three great-grandchildren,
and six great-great-grandchildren. The numbers are so vast that I understand
the family had a little difficulty figuring out whether they were correct, so I
apologize if I’ve missed a half-dozen people here or there.
In
any event, we know that Liz never lost track of any of you. Each and every one
of you has a special place in her heart—and I do mean “has,” not “had.” A heart
as big as hers may be forced to relocate, but it doesn’t leave. And it will
never leave you. Not. Ever.
I
suspect that this may be the reason Liz asked me to do the eulogy—precisely because
I am not one of the vast numbers of
children and grandchildren and great grandchildren and so on. As a bit of an
outsider, I had the opportunity to hear Liz talk about all of you and (always) brag about all of you.
According
to Liz, you’re quite an amazing bunch: brilliant, handsome, beautiful,
successful, resourceful, kind, and so on. This is how she saw all of you, with
all your gifts but also in your humanness and, let’s be candid, your
imperfections. She adored you, and adores you still, and (even if indirectly)
that's what she told me, and I think it’s what she wanted me to tell you.
Well,
in that sermon Dr. King said that we measure the breadth of our life by
reference to our concern for the welfare of others. Liz certainly led a full
and complete life by this measure, too. Indeed, her generosity toward her
family is not just famous—it is notorious. I suspect that any of us who ever
brought a child to Liz’s home later discovered that Liz had stuffed cash into one
of his or her pockets when no one was looking.
I
remember—as I’m sure many of you do—sitting at the table and watching Jim Amato
shake his head and say: “If I didn’t stop her she’d give it all away and we’d
be penniless.” More than once I remember Liz flashing her beaming smile,
shrugging, and admitting that it was probably true.
But
I’ve always thought that the best indicator of her generosity and care for
others were the phrases you heard her say over and over again when you were in
her home. “Can I get you something?” “What would you like?” “What do you need?”
“What do you need?” It did not take
me long to figure out that the answer “Oh, nothing, thank you” was not
acceptable and would not terminate the chain of inquiry. You see, Liz had a special
insight. She understood that, actually, you did
need something. You needed one person—at least one person in your life—who would
always be asking you what you needed, even when you said you didn’t need a
thing.
And
that brings us to the final dimension of the fulfilled and complete life that Dr.
King described—height. A complete life, he maintained, needs to reach skyward.
It needs to stretch up toward that great and divine mystery that brought Liz into
this world and that now holds her in its everlasting arms. A complete life, Dr.
King argued, needs to include a relationship with God and to be an expression of God.
In
this respect, Liz’s life had height enough to touch the heavens. The great theologian
Martin Buber said: “One eats in holiness, tastes the taste of food in holiness,
and the table becomes an altar.” Liz got this. Liz understood that when she
welcomed us into her house, when she gathered us around her table, when she fed
us and gave us wine, when she talked with us and joked with us and asked us
what we needed, when she filled us with that abundance that came out of her
kitchen and wrapped us in that abundance that came out of her generosity of
spirit, this, this, was a sacred and a holy act.
And
heaven only knows—and I mean that literally—how many times she did it. The gospels
tell us that Jesus fed thousands. I wonder whether, when Liz met Him on Sunday,
she asked if they could compare numbers.
Now,
Liz had only one request of me with respect to this eulogy: she said “Len,
please, don’t just talk about my
meatballs.” And I’ve kept that promise. I’ve talked about lots of other things
instead.
But
… but I will close by saying this. I believe in a loving and gracious God. I
believe the circle is, and will be, unbroken. I believe that Liz is here, living within us. I believe that
Liz is there, reunited with those she
has lost and waiting for each of us when our time comes to join her. I believe
in heaven. And I believe that heaven cannot possibly be heaven unless all of us can have at least one more plate of
meatballs with Elizabeth Amici Guido Amato.
Will you please say “amen” with me? Amen.
