A Prayer...
Death is nothing at all.
It does not count.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
Everything remains as it was.
The old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.
Call me by the old familiar name.
Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.
Put no sorrow in your tone.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effort
Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was.
There is unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just around the corner.
All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting, when we meet again.
Dedicated to Senator Ted Kennedy & Eunice Kennedy Shriver
The work goes on.
The cause endures.
The hope still lives.
And the dream shall never die...
Ted Kennedy, Jr. eulogy to His Father (February 22, 1932 – August 25, 2009) My name is Ted Kennedy Jr., a name I share with my son, a name I shared with my father. Although it hasn't been easy at times to live with this name, I've never been more proud of it than I am today. Your Eminence, thank you for being here. You've graced us with your presence. To all the musicians who have come here, my father loved the arts and he would be so pleased for your performances today. My heart is filled. And I first want to say thank you. My heart is filled with appreciation and gratitude to the people of Massachusetts, my father's loyal staff, who -- in many ways my dad's loss is just as great for them as it is for those of us in our family. And to all of my father's family and friends who have come to pay their respects. Listening to people speak about how my father impacted their lives and the deep personal connection that people felt with my dad has been an overwhelming emotional experience. My dad had the greatest friends in the world. All of you here are also my friends, and his greatest gift to me. I love you just as much as he did. Sarah Brown, Beticia (ph), President Obama, President Clinton, Secretary Clinton, President Bush, President Carter, you honor my family by your presence here today. I remember how my dad would tell audiences years ago, I don't mind not being president; I just mind that someone else is. There is much to say and much will be said about Ted Kennedy, the statesman, the master of the legislative process and bipartisan compromise, work horse of the Senate, beacon of social justice, and protector of the people. There's also much to be said and much will be said about my father, the man, the story teller, the lover of costume parties, the practical joker, the accomplished painter. He was a lover of everything French, cheese, wine, and women. He was a mountain climber, navigator, skipper, tactician, airplane pilot, rodeo rider, ski jumper, dog lover and all around adventurer. Our family vacations left us all injured and exhausted. He was a dinner table debater and devil's advocate. He was an Irishman, and a proud member of the Democratic party. Here is one you may not know. Out of Harvard, he was a Green Bay Packers recruit, but decided to go to law school instead. He was a devout Catholic, whose faith helped him survive unbearable losses, and whose teaching teachings taught him that he had a moral obligation to help others in need. He was not perfect, far from it. But my father believed in redemption. And he never surrendered, never stopped trying to right wrongs, be they the results of his own failings or of ours. But today I'm simply compelled to remember Ted Kennedy as my father and my best friend. When I was 12 years old, I was diagnosed with bone cancer. And a few months after I lost my leg, there was a heavy snowfall over my childhood home outside of Washington D.C. And my father went to the garage to get the old Flexible Flyer, and asked me if I wanted to go sledding down the steep driveway. And I was trying to get used to my new artificial leg. And the hill was covered with ice and snow. And it wasn't easy for me to walk. And the hill was very slick. And as I struggled to walk, I slipped and I fell on the ice. And I started to cry and I said, I can't do this. I said, I'll never be able to climb up that hill. And he lifted me up in his strong, gentle arms and said something I will never forget, he said, I know you can do it. There is nothing that you can't do. We're going to climb that hill together, even if it takes us all day. Sure enough, he held me around my waist and we slowly made it to the top. And you know, at age 12 losing your leg pretty much seems like the end of the world. But as I climbed on to his back and we flew down the hill that day, I knew he was right. I knew I was going to be OK. You see, my father taught me that even our most profound losses are survivable, and that is -- it is what we do with that loss, our ability to transform it into a positive event, that is one of my father's greatest lessons. He taught me that nothing is impossible. During the summer months when I was growing up, my father would arrive late in the afternoon from Washington on Fridays. And as soon as he got to Cape Cod, he would want to go straight out and practice sailing maneuvers on the Victoria, in anticipation of that weekend's races. And we'd be out late and the sun would be setting and family dinner would be getting cold. And we'd be out there practicing our jibes and our spinnaker sets, long after everyone else had gone ashore. One night, not another boat in sight on the summer sea, I asked him, why are we always the last ones on the water? Teddy, he said, you see, most of the other sailors that we race against are smarter and more talented than we are. But the reason... but the reason why we're going to win is that we will work harder than them, and we will be better prepared. And he just wasn't talking about boating. My father admired perseverance. My father believed that to do a job effectively required a tremendous amount of time and effort. Dad instilled in me also the importance of history and biography. He loved Boston, and the amazing writers and philosophers and politicians from Massachusetts. He took me and my cousins to the old North Church and to Walden Pond and to the homes of Herman Melville and Nathaniel Hawthorne in the Berkshires. He thought that Massachusetts was the greatest place on Earth. And he had letters from many of its former senators, like Daniel Webster and John Quincy Adams, hanging on his walls, inspired by things heroic. He was a Civil War buff. When we were growing up, he would pack us all into his car or rented camper, and we would travel around to all the great battlefields. I remember he would frequently meet with his friend, Shelby Foot, at a particular site on the anniversary of a historic battle, just so he could appreciate better what the soldiers must have experienced on that day. He believed that in order to know what to do in the future, you had to understand the past. My father loved other old things. He loved his classic wooden schooner, the Mya. He loved light houses and his 1973 Pontiac convertible. My father taught me to treat everyone I meet, no matter what station in life, with the same dignity and respect. He could be discussing arms control with the president at 3 p.m. and meeting with a union carpenter for -- on fair wage legislation or a New Bedford fisherman on fisheries policy at 4:30. I once told him that he had accidentally left some money -- I remember this when I was a little kid -- on the sink in our hotel room. And he replied, Teddy, let me tell you something, making beds all day is back breaking work. The woman who has to clean up after us today has a family to feed. And just -- that's just the kind of guy he was. He answered Uncle Joe's call to patriotism, Uncle Jack's call to public service, and Bobby's determination to seek a newer world. Unlike them, he lived to be a grandfather. And knowing what my cousins have been through, I feel grateful that I have had my father as long as I did.
He even taught me some of life's harder lessons, such as how to like Republicans. He once told me -- he said Teddy, Republicans love this country just as much as I do. I think that he felt like he had something in common with his Republican counterparts, the vagaries of public opinion, the constant scrutiny of the press, the endless campaigning for the next election. But most of all, the incredible shared sacrifice that being in public life demands. He understood the hardship that politics has on a family and the hard work and commitment that it requires. He often brought his Republican colleagues home for dinner. And he believed in developing personal relationships and honoring differences. And one of the wonderful experiences that I will remember today is how many of his Republican colleagues are sitting here right before him. That's a true testament to the man. And he always told me that -- always be ready to compromise, but never compromise on your principles. He was an idealist and a pragmatist. He was restless, but patient. When he learned that a survey of Republican senators named him the Democratic legislator they most wanted to work with and that John McCain called him the single most effective member of the U.S. Senate, he was so proud, because he considered the combination of accolades from your supporters and respect from your sometime political adversaries as one of the ultimate goals of a successful political life. At the end of his life, my dad returned home. He died at the place he loved more than any other, Cape Cod. The last months of my dad's life were not sad or terrifying, but full -- filled with profound experiences, a series of moments more precious than I could have imagined. He taught me more about humility, vulnerability, and courage than he had taught me in my whole life. Although he lived a full and complete life by any measure, the fact is, he wasn't done. He still had work to do. He was so proud of where we had recently come as a nation. And although I do grieve for what might have been, for what he might have helped us accomplish, I pray today that we can set aside this sadness and instead celebrate all that he was and did and stood for. I will try to live up to the high standard that my father set for all of us when he said, the work goes on; the cause endures; the hope still lives; and the dream shall never die. I love you, dad. I always will. And I miss you already. http://kennedy.senate.gov http://tedkennedy.org
Two Greek Coins: Alexander the Great and Athena
Maria Shriver's eulogy to her mother (July 10, 1921 – August 11, 2009) Vice President Biden, Governor Patrick, we want to thank all of you for coming here today to honor and celebrate the life of our mother. Over the past few days, our mother has been called everything from a saint, to a pioneer, to a trailblazer, to a true original, to a civil rights advocate of legendary proportions, to a force of human nature who more than held her own in a family of highly competitive, high-achieving men. She was indeed a transformative figure. But to her five children -- Mark, Bobby, Timmy, and Anthony -- to all of us, she was simply, "Mummy." Mummy was our hero. She was scary smart and not afraid to show it. She was tough, but also compassionate. Driven, but also really fun and funny. Competitive, but also empathetic. Restless and patient. Curious and prayerful. She liked to hang with the guys, but all her heroes -- except for her brother Jack -- were women. She had a husband who was totally devoted to her in every sense of that word. A man who marveled at everything she said and everything she did. He didn't mind if her hair was a mess, if she walked around in a wet bathing suit, if she beat him at tennis, or challenged his ideas. He let her rip and he let her roar and he loved everything about her. Add that to five kids who adored her and loved to be with her, and you have the ultimate role model. Mummy was all of our best friends, and it was an honor for all of us to be her children, and a special privilege for me to be her daughter. Now that's not to say it was always easy being her kid, because she wasn't exactly like any other mother you'd ever seen. As a young girl, I didn't actually know how to process her appearance much at the time, because most of the mothers were dressed up and kind of neatly coiffed.
Mummy wore men's pants, she smoked Cuban cigars, and she played tackle football. She would come to pick us all up at school in her blue Lincoln convertible, her hair would be flying in the wind, there usually would be some pencils or pens in it. The car would be filled with all these boys and their friends and their animals. She'd have on a cashmere sweater with little notes pinned to it to remind her of what she needed to do when she got home. And more often than not, the sweater would be covering a bathing suit, so she could lose no time jumping into the pool to beat us all in a water polo game. Needless to say, when the nuns would announce her arrival, I would try to run for cover. Mummy, when she wasn't trying to beat each of us in a game of tennis or on the football field, you could usually find her at Mass with our father, praying or working. And I mean really working. She was, as you all know, determined to change the world for people with intellectual disabilities, and she did, and you had no choice but to join her in her mission, which took all of us from our backyard to every state in this nation and just as many countries around the world. Our mother never rested, she never stopped; she was momentum on wheels. She was focused, relentless, and she got the job done. Today when I close my mind, and I'm sure this goes for my brothers as well and we think about our mother, we see her clapping her hands and cheering us all on in everything we did. I see her encouraging me to beat my brothers in tennis. I see her moving my books from the back of the bookstore to the front of the bookstore, and when the manager would call and tell her she couldnt do that, shed tell him to go right back behind the desk where he belonged and be quiet. I hear her when I would call her on the phone. At 15, she sent me to Africa to live with a family in the medina section of Tunis, and I'd call to complain that there was no running water, no toilet, and I was sleeping with five men, and she'd said, "I don't want to hear one more yip out of you, get your job done and don't come back until you're finished." I've heard, "I dont want to hear one more yip out of you" a lot. I see her urging my father to take me everywhere with my brothers, including right into the Baltimore Oriole locker room. I see her, as I'm sure my brothers do, laughing, praying, sailing, loving each and every one of us equally. And while she counseled me that she was raising me in a man's world, she let me know that there was no doubt in her mind that I could compete, that I should compete, and that I could win. Mummy was indeed a trailblazer. She showed up in her life as herself, and that takes courage.
She took adversity and turned it into advantage. Inspired by the rejection she saw many women face, especially her sister Rosemary and her mother, and other mothers of special children, she turned that into her lifes focus and her lifes passion and mission. Her own brand of what Id call maternal feminism. She believed 100 percent in the power and the gifts of women to change the language, the tempo, and the character of this world. Her heroes were the Virgin Mary, Mother Teresa, Dorothy Day, her own mother, her sister Rosemary. All of whom in her eyes had already done that, and she would always challenge each of us to do the same. You will, she said, you must, you can. If she were here today and speaking here -- and I think we all wish she were -- she would pound this podium, she would quote Teilhard de Chardin, and ask each of you what you have done today to better the world. She would tell you stories about her special friends and what they have accomplished, and she would ask each and every one of you to join her in making this world a more tolerant, just, and compassionate place. She would end by talking about her own family, how grateful she was to her parents and to her brothers and sisters, all of whom she absolutely adored. Shed tell you how proud she was of Sargent, and then she'd tell you how proud she was of each of us. And she would tell you about each thing each of us did, and she'd ask you for money, for all four of our brothers who run non-profits they'll probably ask you later, but she would ask you. So on behalf of them -- pointing to each of her brothers -- Save the Children, Bread, Best Buddies, Special Olympics -- and then she would remind all of you that you hadnt done enough and there was much more to do, and you would leave this church simply in awe of her. Mummy was indeed a towering figure. I'm sure everybody in this church has a story about her, a story that would make you laugh, make you cry, a story that would make you roll your eyes at her audacity and her brilliance. She was the real deal, a woman who did everything women aspired to. She had a great husband, she had a great family, a deep, deep faith in God, and she combined that with being a fearless warrior for the voiceless. I am so thrilled, as I know my brothers are, that people all over the world are hearing about her this week, in editorials and on television, because they need to hear stories about individuals like Mummy. I'm especially glad that young women are hearing about her, because she was a woman who didn't choose, and women are often told you have to choose to be this, or that, this kind of woman, you have to dress this way, talk this way, you have to have one opinion. Well Mummy wasn't like that, she didnt choose. She let all the different parts of her go out, and that's what made her unique. She didn't allow herself to be tamed, or contained. She achieved herself, her true authentic self. The very same woman who made grown men quake in their boots when she stepped foot on Capitol Hill was the very same woman who spent quality time with each and every one of us, making us feel loved, making us believe in our self. She spent quality time with each of those grandchildren you saw here on this altar, building sandcastles, looking for leprechauns, looking for mermaids. She didn't choose between being strong and soft, complex or simple.
As her story goes out this week, I believe that she will become a new torchbearer for women of our time, sending a new message. That you don't have to be a certain way, you don't have to fit a stereotype, that over your life you can have a full, complete, spiritual life -- a life that is about others and a life that is about family. Her story, I believe, teaches that women are complex and they can live out every simple, single aspect of that complexity. In closing, let me say that in the last few years of her life, I found Mummy to be almost more awe-inspiring than in her 85 years. She who never sat still was forced to confront stillness, and it was hard for her, but she never complained and she never asked for pity. She fought, and she fought, and she fought, right up until her very last breath. Over the years, all of us learned so much from her, by listening to her, by watching her, and this past year, I learned from her as well. As she softened, she gave me permission to do the same. As she sat still, she taught me how important that is in one's life. She taught us that real strength can also be found in real vulnerability, and that it's OK -- even important -- to lean on those who love you. Now if you had told me a few years ago that at the end of my mother's life she and I would sit in a room and just be, I would have said you were crazy. If you had told me that at the age of 52, I would finally get up the nerve to crawl into bed with my mother, hold her, and tell her that I love her, I would have said you were nuts. And if you had told me that Mummy and I would write poetry together, I would know for sure you that you'd lost your mind. But all those things really happened, as Mummy learned to let go. At the end of her life, she was strong and vulnerable, she was tired and tireless, determined and also ready to surrender to God. She did it all, she lived it all, and she loved us all. To be honest, I think it's impossible for each of us to think about our life without Mummy. It's interesting, as we've talked amongst us the last couple of days, each of us felt like an only child. Each of us felt as though our mother was our best friend. Each of us talked to her every day, and sometimes more than once. And of course, I think if I said to my mother, which I often did, "I can't go on without you, I don't know how to live without you,' she'd say, 'You're fine, I've raised you well, now get out there, I don't want to hear one more yip, get going, your brothers will be nice to you." And so I will, we all will, get up and get going. But I wanted to leave you with this little poem that my mother and I wrote together in a hospital room in Boston. I read it to her several times, and she liked it, a lot. It has no name but I thought she would like me to share it with you. It goes like this: Thank you Mummy, for giving me the breath of life. Thank you for giving me a push over and over again. Thank you for doing your best. Here we are, you and me. Now its you, needing the breath of life. Now its you, needing the push. You did it to me, let me do it for you. Your love has brought me to my knees, I cannot breathe without you, I cannot think without you, I am lost without you. Here we are, you and me, the clouds are gone, the sky is clear. You are the star in my sky, you are the music in my heart. Do you hear it? Listen. Listen. Mummy, you are the trumpet of my life. Amen.
As founder and honorary chairperson of Special Olympics and executive vice president of the Joseph P. Kennedy, Jr. Foundation, Eunice Kennedy Shriver was a leader in the worldwide struggle to improve and enhance the lives of individuals with intellectual disabilities for more than three decades.
http://www.eunicekennedyshriver.org
http://www.specialolympics.org
Hyannis -- Special Olympian Loretta Clairborne wipes a tear as she holds the torch in front of St. Francis Xavier Church as the casket enters for a Mass of Christian Burial service for Eunice Kennedy Shriver this morning.
Our hearts go out to the Kennedy - Shriver family
You will remain in our prayers..
Love Shelley
