GUEST COLUMNIST: Life lessons learnt writing obits

Last week I made an elderly widow cry.

Her husband had only been dead a few days when I called. I asked her probing questions about his life and the circumstances of his death,and listened as she spoke haltingly, her voice overwhelmed by emotion. She was still sobbing when we hung up, and I was relieved to let the crying woman mourn privately. Then I realized I had forgotten to ask her where her husband died. So I called back.

I am an intern at a weekly Jewish newspaper, and, like many others aspiring to a career in journalism, toiling for no money and even less respect, I write obituaries.

My friends often ask me if my job is depressing. After all, I spend my days speaking to people in mourning. I hear stories of lives unfinished, of things left undone.

"We would have been married 50 years next month."

"We were just wrapping up plans for her 100th birthday celebration."

I hear about people who died far too young after far too much suffering. I talk to widows who are now without their soulmates and children who are now orphans.

So, yes -- my job is depressing. But it's also inspiring and uplifting. I hear stories of men and women who overcame tremendous hardships to accomplish great things, like the blind man who became a Talmud scholar. I hear about those who gave generously of their time and money in order to help community groups and charities, like the woman who at 98 still attended her organization's monthly board meetings. I hear about people whom I wish I had the privilege of knowing, people adored and respected by their communities, like the kind-hearted, gifted choir director who inspired whole congregations.

Even those who led quiet, seemingly unremarkable lives have stories that need to be told. I learned this when a former employee of the newspaper called up and asked if I could write an obituary for his grandfather, who had passed away that morning.

The grandfather was not a rabbi or a scholar. He was not president of his synagogue or his local Jewish charity. He did not invent or discover a cure for anything. Arrogantly, I told my editor that the man did not sound terribly interesting. I asked if I really had to write an obit about him. After all, what would I say? How would I write 500 words about someone who had never done anything newsworthy?

The editor -- rightly -- reprimanded me, saying that consideration for the former employee dictated that I should write the obituary. I began calling up the grandfather's friends and relatives, trying to uncover something interesting that I could put into an article. I still had doubts about this one.

What I discovered was enlightening. The man had lived a long life,full of love, faith, passion and music. His family spoke at length of how much they adored him and how much he had taught them.

His wife spoke of how he had survived the Great Depression by playing the trumpet in speakeasies and dance halls. His daughter told me how, when a bird relieved itself on the tip of his nose, he didn't get angry. Instead, he laughed, and praised the bird's aim. His grandson told me how the man helped his blind and disabled friends. As they spoke, the man began to seem remarkably intriguing -- here was a man who had been talented, enterprising, understanding and compassionate.

And I had thought he was boring.

Through this man, I learned that no life is ordinary. At the end of it all, yes, we may be remembered partly for our careers or the positions we held. But we will chiefly be remembered for the love we gave, the time we invested and the lives we changed.

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