The holiday we ignore

I love birthdays. I remember my childlike eagerness as the day approached. The family focused on me, served me cake, gave me presents, and, in essence, told me they were glad I was born.

As I grew up and older, it was the birthdays of the kids and now the grandkids that give such pleasure. A time when we all become childlike again. A holiday that comes round with yearly regularity. A holy day.

There’s another day that comes around once a year. The same day, the same month, year in year out. A day we ignore because we don’t know when it is. The day of our death. Strange thought. Every year since we were born, that day comes around, and to us it’s just another ordinary time. God knows but we don’t. That thought gives me the shivers.

When loved ones die, we celebrate the passing with memorial services or celebrations-of-the-life-of (you name her), choosing this instead of calling it a funeral. This is good and can, in faith, be a celebration. We look at photos of our dear one (baby pictures, funny little girl, wedding, and so on) and smile. We chuckle at the funny stories, remember achievements, express astonishment at all the grand and great grandchildren that issued from this life. We celebrate a life and say our goodbyes. It becomes a holy day.

Of course, the act of celebration doesn’t erase the need to grieve our losses. After all, our friend or cousin or spouse is no longer physically present to listen to our sorrows, enjoy that cup of coffee with us, or touch us. But I’m told that even grief can become a holy time, especially when combined with faith and hope.

But I will not be physically present at my own deathday celebration. I don’t even know when it will be. Is that fair?

Silly question. Fair or not, I don’t really want to be there. It might offend my modesty. Then again, it might not. I’ll never know.

I’m not a party-girl. I don’t do well at planning parties either. But it seems that it’s necessary to plan for my deathday party, mainly to spare my kids that task. So Hal and I are in the process of choosing our burial plot, memorial plaque, or spot where the ashes will be scattered. We haven’t yet decided which of those options best suits us. We’ll probably choose cremation. But that still demands a choice between an expensive urn, a handmade wooden box, or a paper bag. Some funeral parlors offer that last option at roughly $18.00 a bag, special paper and all.

We’ve decided that any plaque will have both of us on it, with just our names and the pertinent dates, when those become known. Anything additional costs too much. Our conservative financial tendencies extend into death, it seems.

I’m glad God keeps that day secret. I don’t want to know.

Some of my favorite spiritual guides include Brother Lawrence and Thomas Kelly, both of whom encourage me to live in the present moment, to treat every day as a holiday. A holy day. I’m drawn to that vision, although I struggle to consistently live it out. But as I grow in grace and this becomes my experience, I’ll be able to inadvertently celebrate my deathday once a year, without even knowing it.

Today, I am very much alive.