“Nobody’s cheated me,” he remarked, not long after his brain cancer diagnosis. “I’m 80, and I’ve had a hell of a life.” He was far from perfect and willing to detail his imperfections. But to the downtrodden, the freedom fighters, the forgotten and the desperate, he was their champion.

My daughter is a Peace Corps volunteer in a rural province of a small, underdeveloped country. One day a local complained to her about his government. “We need freedom,” he told her, and he didn’t appear optimistic about the prospects for acquiring it. “But we have friends in America,” he said, brightening. “John McCain wants to help us.” He hadn’t any idea my daughter had a connection to McCain, and she didn’t volunteer it.

A random guy living in the back of beyond not only knew John McCain’s name, but knew him to be a friend who would help him if he could. I think my friend would be content with that as a eulogy. He died knowing that a life spent serving the dignity of his fellow man brought the most satisfaction and with it a little hope for God’s mercy.