Be honest:  you hope your funeral will be well-attended.  You want people to have to drive around the funeral-home parking lot searching for a space, while inside at least 100 friends and relatives speak in low voices about what a wonderful person you were, what great memories they have of you.

That’s the kind of funeral my cousin Mark Walsh had. 

Mark died on April 14 of lung cancer.  He was a lifelong smoker, but I don’t want to focus here on that tragic mistake.  I want to explore what Mark did right.   I want to explore why you couldn’t find a parking space for his funeral. 

Mark was an example of Pope Francis calls “artisans of the common good.” (See this LINK to an earlier blog post)  He was a devoted husband of 43 years to his wife Kathy.  Together, they raised four fine sons in a deteriorating neighborhood where the odds were against them.  They were rewarded with 7 grandchildren.  He was a loving son and brother.  Mark and his brothers don’t always agree on everything, but they grew up hard and had a rock-solid devotion to each other and to their mother. 

My cousin never went to college.  He worked as a laborer.  Staying employed was a struggle, but Mark never succumbed to the “white working-class despair” that we’re suddenly hearing so much about.  He was often unemployed, but never for very long.  He always managed to find work, to support his wife and children. 

Mark did something else that is unusual in our modern era:  he lived his whole life in one community.  He was born in McKees Rocks, grew up in McKees Rocks, raised his own family there, and died there.  He coached Little League in the Rocks for 30 years. 

My cousin never did anything big and splashy.  He didn’t attend black-tie fundraisers, never played Major League baseball, never travelled much outside Western Pennsylvania.  Mark was just a good and simple man who was loyal to his family, his friends and his struggling community.  You could do worse, if you want a well-attended funeral.

NOTE:  The picture is of me and Mark as babies.  We were born 4 weeks apart, and he and his brothers were among the most treasured playmates of my childhood.