Remembering Jerry

Recently, the world lost one of it’s own, Jerry Hunley. Not a name you will probably recognize.  He wasn’t famous.  He wasn’t a luminary.  He was me and you.  He was a good husband, son, brother, and friend.  He was the guy next door, or the co worker that you share your days with.  He was every man.  The kind of guy you like to know.

After a long struggle, Jerry lost his battle with Lou Gehreg’s disease.  He will be missed by his family and friends. They will remember him for his humor, his kindness, sincerity, and generosity. They will hold close the memories of the years that he graced their lives, and will mourn his loss.  Completing the circle of life, granted to each of us to do with as we may, each knowing that what you take with you is far less important then what you leave.

It is strange that I write of him today, because I never met him.  Our paths never crossed.  It wasn’t until his recent death that I became aware of him.  A friend of mine shared a poem with me that was written by his wife Pam, in tribute to her husband.  To say I was struck by her words would be an understatement.  Pam had the misfortune of losing not only her husband last year, but also her mother.  Yet, on the parchment of her grief, she was able to pen her tribute to her departed spouse.  With her permission, I would like to share her words with you.  They are simple.  They are heartfelt.  They are her gift of love.

Grace is not always found at a ballet,
Sometimes it huddles in a dark, green recliner, stiff with pain,
Smiling at visitors and asking eager questions about their day,
Concerned about their comfort, their problems, their happiness
Always glad they came and wishing they could stay.

Courage is not always found on a  battlefield,
Sometimes it lies, short of breath, in a nursing home bed,
Rarely complaining, never bemoaning the tragic hand of fate,
But cheerfully bearing the loss, one by one, of all that once was dear,
And no one knew the cost until it was too late.

Love is not always found at a wedding,
Sometimes it hovers between two worlds in a dimly lit hospital room,
Hand clasping hand, tears falling like raindrops, remembering the past,
A voice whispering of old memories, fun times, and dreams of long ago,
Until his spirit left the shell and he was free at last.