Lexi's eulogy for Duncan

Duncan Brown’s Eulogy

As part of the last paper he wrote in college—for his major in psychology—Duncan set out (in his own words) to “examine the various nuances of my personality.”

Duncan, we—your family and friends—are gathered here to remember and to celebrate those nuances as part of our very difficult good-bye to you.

First—that smile. So many things seemed to bring him joy—and you could see it emerge in that wacky, exuberant, loving smile. Among the family pictures on the wall behind the sofa in Vicki and Kenny’s living room, you may find a perfect example—Duncan with Michael, grinning infectiously in one of their shared-birthday moments. Duncan was born with mirth in his soul.

And next—well, he was smart! As a toddler, Duncan sat every morning in his blue wooden high chair, eating cheerios and watching a TV journalist whose unusual name was Hughes Rudd. “Mommy,” he liked to ask me, “is that Hughes?” One day he asked me twice, “Is that Hughes?” “Is that Hughes, Mommy?” “Yes,” I assured him. “That is Hughes, Duncan.” “No, Mommy, he replied in as cautionary a voice as he could muster. That’s one Hugh.” I thought he was so smart!

Next—well, every one who knew him might agree that Duncan was spacey. When he was about five years old, he played on a kindergarten soccer team. I was always in the stands cheering, although to my recollection they never won a game. At the end of one such game, which they had lost badly, Duncan came running up to me in the stands. He looked up with great optimism and asked enthusiastically, “Did we win?” “No, you didn’t, Duncan I said gently.” Then with quite a puzzled look, he threw up his hands and asked, “Then . . . .who did ?”

Next—there’s a quality I’ve been trying hard to put my finger on—to find a name for. Self-effacing? Perhaps. Duncan just never bought into that social competitiveness so prevalent in middle school. One day I was driving car-pool, and a round of social one-upsmanship began. So-and-so was having a party. “Are you going to the party?” “Have you been invited to the party?” When this question got round to Duncan, who had been listening with active interest, he responded with such kind and genuine enthusiasm, “No, I’m not invited, but it sounds like fun and I’m sure you’ll have a good time.” He was a sweetheart who really cared that others would be happy.

Finally, Duncan was creative—painting, cooking, gardening, and writing—his imagination took fire in so many ways. Recently, he was adding captions to old family photos. On one of him at age three, sitting on a spring horse at his preschool playground—Duncan has written, “I tamed that wild bronco ‘cause that’s what real men in Texas do.”

Duncan’s imagination flourished in his role as a father. Just two days ago, Aimee commented that, when he played with Ella and Charlotte, Duncan wasn’t just going through the motions, he was right there PLAYING with them.

Many of you remember the eulogies he wrote for Pappy and for Grandpa Wolf. Some of you were planning that he would write yours! Duncan’s creative gifts have brightened many, many lives.

I have really been a lucky mom because, when Duncan married Aimee, he was blessed, not only with a wonderful wife, but also a whole new family that loved him and cared for him as their own, and with a community that just simply embraced him. What more could we want for our son? Vicky and Kenny—and all family and friends gathered here to honor Duncan, thank you. Here in Louisville, Duncan found a home—and with Aimee they began their own new home and family. And so, although this day is one of closure, it is also one of continuity.

It is hard to say goodbye. When Duncan was born, we asked in his birth announcement for all to “Rejoice with us in bidding welcome to the family of man, Duncan Stewart Brown.”

Now that we must let him go, I cannot help but to think of the Biblical story of Hannah in First Samuel, who prayed fervently to God for a son—and promised the Lord that, if He sent her one, she would give him back. “I will name him Samuel,” she said, “for he is lent to me from God.”

Well, Duncan, like Hannah’s Samuel, you were lent to us for 37 short years, and now we must give you back.

I believe God blessed me last Sunday morning, as I packed for this difficult journey, for on the radio I heard this old Welsh lullaby and hymn played, and I knew these must be my closing words of farewell:

Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee
All through the night
Guardian angels God will send thee
All through the night
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping
Hill and dale in slumber steeping
I my loving vigil keeping
All through the night

Hark, a solemn bell is ringing
Clear through the night
Thou, my love, art heavenward winging
Home through the night
Earthly dust from off thee shaken
Soul immortal shalt thou awaken
With thy last dim journey taken
Home through the night