Doug is dead. He died Friday and already we are beyond asking why. It seems so unimportant now, because we can almost see what his life tried to mean. He was a good and searching man. He wanted to know about himself and about what surrounded him. He asked and shared. He tried to grow, to understand and to be holy. It was not always easy.
At the funeral, Bishop More said Church could be many things, that it could try and fail since it was human and divine together, and at times it might be very wrong. But it could never be without holiness and love, since these are what make it Church. It is what makes it God.
That's some of what Doug was. It's what he tried to give and share and bring to life. It's what he looked for in other people. I'll miss him, but hopefully I will have learned.
My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
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