"Jonas Nicklaus could be called an acolyte in both virtue and knowledge, and we do not know whether his passing was a loss to the world or a grace granted to him by God..."
At noon on September 2, a small memorial service was being held in the church where Nelson often attended worship. Nelson sat in the front row of the chapel, looking up at Jonas's black-and-white portrait. The photo had been taken last Christmas, when Jonas had been unable to refuse Nelson's request. It was the first photo Nelson had ever taken of his uncle, and also the last. In the picture, Jonas smiled awkwardly, looking somewhat gratified, but even more nervous.
"...Jonas was a witty, charming man. In his second published book, he wrote: 'If only people could book their own funerals while they were still alive. I hope the officiant or the pastor can use my death to tell a joke—on the one hand, I hope my family and friends can be kept away from grief and relax for a moment amid the solemnity; on the other, if my death is foolish enough, I also hope to take this chance to warn the world, so they won't repeat my mistakes and reenact my stupidity'..."
The priest spread a Bible open on the platform and spoke with a perfectly serious face. As soon as he finished, he smiled faintly himself, and the guests below all understood, laughing quietly. The atmosphere of grief was instantly dispelled. Bella, who had been leaning on Nelson's shoulder, also lifted her head and smiled at her nephew.
"Then I'll use his passing to tell a joke." Father Crawford, his hair gray, put down the cross in his hand and wiped away his tears. "Jonas spent his whole life running for peace. Countless