We love you too, Hugh
Maybe four or five months ago, a brother who had become a friend of ours here got up in testimony meeting; he said that he and his wife had lived here for 21 years (if I remember correctly) and this was only the second time he had stood to bear his testimony. He talked about how, growing up in Kentucky hill country, everyone worked hard, they had a roof over their heads and food on the table, but no habits of open affection. He said none of them really expressed the thought, "I love you" to anyone else. It took time for him to learn to say such words, and he mostly only said them to his wife. He commented about hard times of various kinds...and how much life had changed with finding the gospel through finding his wife, and his gratitude for friends and his ward family.
He was kind of looking down at the podium as much as out at all of us; then there was a quiet declaration that will touch my heart forever: looking up, he said, "All you people out there--I probably love you."
He took a shine to the two of us, and especially he demonstrated a friendship for Bill. They came to a couple of the Wasatch Chorale programs, a community choir he sings in. He went through a cancer scare, at least as he expressed it to Bill, several months ago. Then about six weeks ago he told Bill quietly, not for publication, so to speak, that his cancer was back. He had bladder cancer, and they couldn't really do anything--they might be able to buy a little time, but it would use up their resources, thus putting his wife in a worse position when it was all over, and ultimately wouldn't change anything. But he still had some time.
He died three weeks ago. What only his wife and children knew was that in fact he had been told nine months ago that he had stage 4 cancer, and his comments in Bill's ear may have been the original prognosis at that time, not the current report when Hugh let us know that the end would be coming down the road. (Very short road, at that point.) His son apologized at the funeral for anyone who might be distressed that they hadn't known, because that was what his dad wanted. He didn't want a fuss, he didn't have any distress in his own mind, he wanted things quiet.
He was a joker, a story teller, and a truly humble and sweet man of service. He loved people but he had a hard time with a crowd. He was asked by our home teacher--ok ministering brother, we have a ministering couple, husband and wife--to come and help give me a priesthood blessing at the end of June before a major traveling vacation; I had to have that extra measure of strength to manage long air flights and all the strains that a big trip entails for me. He told us that his wife had said as he went out the door, "Now don't you be late for dinner!" so he couldn't get too wrapped up in visiting. So they gave me that blessing first as Curt and Nancy stayed longer for a good visit, but Hugh approached that moment in pure humility and love, and I felt it and was and am grateful for it.
His family told stories on him, some poignant, some hilarious. His youngest son, Adam, told of him leaving the Kentucky farm and ending up in California, working at a service station and finding a mentor and friend in its owner. One day he met the owner's very tall brother (aha, I thought, that explains Adam's height because his mother is short and his father is average) and his daughter, who had a limp and a beautiful smile. "He decided to ignore the limp and pursue the smile." That was his wife Sharron, who spent most of her childhood in hospitals because she contracted polio when she was two. They had a long life together, and to her he has simply stepped into another space for a short while--she says she has been lifted and carried along spiritually every day.
His middle initial was M., actually for Meredith, but when someone would ask him what the M stood for, he used to say "Mility" so that you would work out that he was Hugh Mility in person. One of his daughters said, "If he ended a story with 'sho nuff' you could probably figure he'd made it up." Or, his mother's second marriage was to a man named Witt, so he would declare that this made him a "half-Witt!" He loved to pull your leg, but the core of him was absolutely serious in his warmth, generosity, and his testimony.
He used to sit against the back wall, right inside the door of the Relief Society room for Sunday School. He always left just before the class closed, to avoid the press of people. He was radiant that Sunday morning and tried to stand to shake my hand as I came in the door, and I told him it wasn't necessary. He said, "You know that I love you, don't you?"and I answered, "Yes, I do, and you know that I love you, Hugh." I went to my own seat with a glow. I didn't know that would be the last time I would see him, that he would not be able to come attend church again because he was getting too weak. I didn't know that in three weeks he would die, but I did know that there was an eternal bond of lovingkindness there. He made our lives better.
The opening hymn was "There is Sunshine in My Soul Today," not one I've ever heard at a funeral. One of his daughters didn't speak at the service, but she wrote up a tribute/remembrance that was printed up and distributed with the funeral program. All the down-home things he loved, the music (country, folk, and bluegrass), the television shows, the peanut M&M's he stashed everywhere because she liked them.
She ended: "Hugh hated funerals but he'd be happy if you found his funeral to be entertaining and have made you laugh. If not, get the heck out of here, go get a bag of peanut M&M's, find a few episodes of Golden Girls or Mama's Family, turn it up nice and loud and watch (alongside the ghost of Hugh) and laugh it up!"
The back of the printed program was a cheery picture of Hugh waving from his newly purchased burial plot--see, this is where I'm moving in next! He was an original and a prize.
(The possum bit was a standing joke to rile his city wife Sharron a bit...)
He was kind of looking down at the podium as much as out at all of us; then there was a quiet declaration that will touch my heart forever: looking up, he said, "All you people out there--I probably love you."
He took a shine to the two of us, and especially he demonstrated a friendship for Bill. They came to a couple of the Wasatch Chorale programs, a community choir he sings in. He went through a cancer scare, at least as he expressed it to Bill, several months ago. Then about six weeks ago he told Bill quietly, not for publication, so to speak, that his cancer was back. He had bladder cancer, and they couldn't really do anything--they might be able to buy a little time, but it would use up their resources, thus putting his wife in a worse position when it was all over, and ultimately wouldn't change anything. But he still had some time.
He died three weeks ago. What only his wife and children knew was that in fact he had been told nine months ago that he had stage 4 cancer, and his comments in Bill's ear may have been the original prognosis at that time, not the current report when Hugh let us know that the end would be coming down the road. (Very short road, at that point.) His son apologized at the funeral for anyone who might be distressed that they hadn't known, because that was what his dad wanted. He didn't want a fuss, he didn't have any distress in his own mind, he wanted things quiet.
He was a joker, a story teller, and a truly humble and sweet man of service. He loved people but he had a hard time with a crowd. He was asked by our home teacher--ok ministering brother, we have a ministering couple, husband and wife--to come and help give me a priesthood blessing at the end of June before a major traveling vacation; I had to have that extra measure of strength to manage long air flights and all the strains that a big trip entails for me. He told us that his wife had said as he went out the door, "Now don't you be late for dinner!" so he couldn't get too wrapped up in visiting. So they gave me that blessing first as Curt and Nancy stayed longer for a good visit, but Hugh approached that moment in pure humility and love, and I felt it and was and am grateful for it.
His family told stories on him, some poignant, some hilarious. His youngest son, Adam, told of him leaving the Kentucky farm and ending up in California, working at a service station and finding a mentor and friend in its owner. One day he met the owner's very tall brother (aha, I thought, that explains Adam's height because his mother is short and his father is average) and his daughter, who had a limp and a beautiful smile. "He decided to ignore the limp and pursue the smile." That was his wife Sharron, who spent most of her childhood in hospitals because she contracted polio when she was two. They had a long life together, and to her he has simply stepped into another space for a short while--she says she has been lifted and carried along spiritually every day.
His middle initial was M., actually for Meredith, but when someone would ask him what the M stood for, he used to say "Mility" so that you would work out that he was Hugh Mility in person. One of his daughters said, "If he ended a story with 'sho nuff' you could probably figure he'd made it up." Or, his mother's second marriage was to a man named Witt, so he would declare that this made him a "half-Witt!" He loved to pull your leg, but the core of him was absolutely serious in his warmth, generosity, and his testimony.
He used to sit against the back wall, right inside the door of the Relief Society room for Sunday School. He always left just before the class closed, to avoid the press of people. He was radiant that Sunday morning and tried to stand to shake my hand as I came in the door, and I told him it wasn't necessary. He said, "You know that I love you, don't you?"and I answered, "Yes, I do, and you know that I love you, Hugh." I went to my own seat with a glow. I didn't know that would be the last time I would see him, that he would not be able to come attend church again because he was getting too weak. I didn't know that in three weeks he would die, but I did know that there was an eternal bond of lovingkindness there. He made our lives better.
The opening hymn was "There is Sunshine in My Soul Today," not one I've ever heard at a funeral. One of his daughters didn't speak at the service, but she wrote up a tribute/remembrance that was printed up and distributed with the funeral program. All the down-home things he loved, the music (country, folk, and bluegrass), the television shows, the peanut M&M's he stashed everywhere because she liked them.
She ended: "Hugh hated funerals but he'd be happy if you found his funeral to be entertaining and have made you laugh. If not, get the heck out of here, go get a bag of peanut M&M's, find a few episodes of Golden Girls or Mama's Family, turn it up nice and loud and watch (alongside the ghost of Hugh) and laugh it up!"
The back of the printed program was a cheery picture of Hugh waving from his newly purchased burial plot--see, this is where I'm moving in next! He was an original and a prize.
(The possum bit was a standing joke to rile his city wife Sharron a bit...)
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