For my dad, Don Welch, whose last full measure continues to fill our lives

In Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, he writes:

It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain —

On Memorial Day, The New York Times printed the names of 100,000 Americans who have died from the coronavirus. Like any memorial–in stone or in print–this full page of printed names should give us pause, should convict us to live better and more fully so that those who died will not have done so in vain. On battlefields, in neighborhoods and workplaces, in refugee camps, ICU units, and emergency rooms, there have been, and will continue to be, those who give their last full measures of devotion to causes, to faith, friends and loved ones, to principles and ideas. And there are those who pledge to take increased devotion to that cause for which these individuals gave the last full measure of devotion. On our deathbeds, most of us hope that the great measuring cup of our lives is filled to the brim with the best of us. We hope that our last full measures will be legacy-worthy, that our deaths will not go unnoticed, that we will continue to live in and through others.

What is the size of a significant death? This is a question my father wrote in his 1997 journal, and what a question it is. Isn’t every death significant and, therefore, large? I think most of us would answer yes and yes. But I also suspect that most of us would concede that some deaths are truly immeasurable and perhaps even more than significant. Identifying the impact of such deaths in no way diminshes the impact of any and all deaths. But there are some deaths that make unique and sizeable marks on the world.

Today would have been my father’s 88th birthday, an occasion on which we traditonally bestowed him with new sports shirts, cartons of malted milk balls, sundry office and racing pigeon accessories. Four years ago, his birthday marked the beginning of his last weeks. When he came home from the hospital to die, these precious weeks were filled with family, friends, colleagues, and students who came to pay their respect and sit–one last time–beside the man who had changed their lives.

Humbled is altogether an inadequate word to describe how I felt as I listened in on these final conversations. My dad’s memory was sharp until the day he died, his words as articulate and artful as ever. I watched how his visitors soaked them all in, desperate to fill themselves with as much of him as they could. I watched how they agonized over leaving, how the trip from his hospital bed to our front door seemed all too short and woefully wrong. I saw tears, heard the tremors of grief bubble in their throats, felt the palpable longing to simply hold on. And hour after hour, it broke my heart.

For we all understood the significance of his impending death. Even today, I find myself thinking If only I had just one hour–just one more hour–there are so many questions I want to ask, so many things I want to say . . . But I suspect that are so many others who have had similar longings, for my father was not just my mentor and teacher but the mentor and teacher to thousands all over the world. One of his friends and former students has been passionately working on a website dedicated to bringing Don Welch to the world. Two former students edited and published his final collection of poetry, and another is currently working on a video project to feature my dad’s life and work . Several friends and colleagues host an annual Don Welch educational conference to help bring my dad’s poetry into more K-12 classrooms. And former students, now teachers, are filling their classrooms with my father’s voice. What is the size of his death? Clearly, this has yet to be determined, for the cup of his life and work has only just begun to run over.

In my dad’s journal, he quoted one of his colleagues and best friends, David Rozema:

You could not, in the language of propositions, say what makes a poem a poem.  A great poem simply is.  It shows itself.  . . . You could not, in the language of propositions, say what makes a man’s life great or worthwhile.  A great man simply is.  He shows himself. 

Dave knew my father well, and his words here are so fitting. This is my dad exactly. A man who simply was, who showed himself in love, in wisdom and in art. A man who lived and wrote up, claiming a heroic voice and spirit in a flat and cynical world.

A book of collected poems:  It is not often you can fit your life’s work into one hand (Don Welch). Hours before he died, my dad received the final draft of his collected poems, Homing. As I handed him the book draft, my mother and I looked on as he held much of what he considered his life’s best work in his hands. But as much as this collection truly represented his best work, it could never fully represent Don Welch, the husband, father, teacher, colleague, and friend. This Don Welch could never be contained within the covers of a book, even a book of his finest poetry.

In his journal, I discovered an epitaph my dad had written for himself 19 years before his death:

 Epitaph
 Think of all those great,
 below, above;
 then remember who I loved.

My dad understood that remembering who he loved was, indeed, a truer measure of his life than anything he’d written. And he loved well. In reading letters he’d writen my mother in the early years of their marriage, I discovered a man who loved his wife with a passion and devotion that took my breath away. This was a love story for the ages, a love story that spilled over and through all the letters and poems he wrote for my mom and into the lives of his children, friends, and students. Above all, his last full measure of devotion was love.

He was a good man.  He went into the dirt, but not out of this world. I’m confident that when my dad wrote these words, he wasn’t writing about himself. And yet, how aptly they describe him. He left behind volumes of exceptional poetry, speeches, essays, and letters, a wife and sister, daughters and son, a parcel of grand and great-grandchildren, and a host of students, colleagues, and readers. And all testify to the fact that he remains gloriously in, not out of this world. And that he was a good man–a very good man.

In response to the deaths of great individuals, Abraham Lincoln advised that we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion. As a writer and teacher of great literature, it’s no surprise that my dad wrote that there was no greater inheritance than language. I hope to live out my days with an increased devotion to the language I’ve inherited from my father. And a devotion to love. Language and love–what a bountiful and eternal last full measure.

The author of a book is a voice with a new body. Don Welch