A visit to the cemetery

We got a shock the other day. The sexton of the cemetery had just informed us that our memorial space on the wall had been engraved (leaving out the years of our deaths) and was ready for us to see. We both felt a little weird about going to visit it, but curiosity won out. When we arrived, we discovered that our engraving was larger than we had envisioned. In fact, it was way too big, especially compared to all the other modest engravings on the walls. We were surprised and embarrassed.

But let me back up. For the past several months we’ve been doing our death-work. We’ve been making the decisions about things like resuscitation, pro-longing (or not) of life, what to do with our bodies, which cemetery to use, and so on. We’ve been filling out the forms, gathering and filing documents, making cost comparisons (and discovering what a big business death has become!).

We had put this off long enough. Still, we don’t feel old enough, as though we’re subconsciously thinking that our deaths will only come in very old age. We know, of course, that’s not necessarily true, but making all the arrangements seems like a capitulation to the inevitable.

But really, it’s just being responsible. It’s getting our ducks in in a row before they jump into the dark lake. And we’re doing it for our kids and grandkids so that they won’t be burdened with the decisions and details. Someday they’ll thank us. (Where have I heard that before?)

Our retirement community has recently been hosting seminars on “Facing the Hard Questions.” In three well-attended sessions, we’re receiving practical information about all these issues, complete with lists of decisions and actions, copies of the necessary forms, ideas for memorial service pre-planning, reflections on how to dispose of our stuff without causing family trauma, and so on. It’s been a helpful reminder that we need to do all of this sooner than later.

Last month we made our cremation arrangements. That really felt weird. But there’s a certain satisfaction in urging that duck into the row. We chose the Friends Cemetery, partly because Hal’s grandparents, aunts and uncles, and parents are buried there. We decided against burying an urn in the ground with a plaque above it, choosing instead to include our names in the wall of engravings. We took our time deciding on what to put on it, wanting a verse to accompany our names.

Back to the visit to the cemetery and the viewing of our engraving. Its size reflected a misunderstanding that seemed huge. It outflanked all the other engravings on the wall and seemed to be bragging, “These dead people are grander than all those other dead people!” But that’s not at all what we think. The opposite. We’ve always felt that small is better than big, modesty better than pride. A whisper is stronger than a shout. But with this engraving, we seem to be giving a big proud shout. So embarrassing.

Surely, we hadn’t ordered this size engraving. But, on second thought…maybe we did. Inadvertently. My borderline dyslexia confuses distance, dimension, and size.

Then, after the emotions subsided (helped by slow breathing and time), my third thought was simply, “So what?” Will anyone even notice? It’s not that obvious (is it?) and people coming to a cemetery aren’t really in a mood to judge other people’s dead relatives.

This led me to ponder the purposes of memorials, be they tombstones, plaques laid in the grass, engravings on a wall—or even the Taj Mahal! We all want to be remembered, and this is, in part, an attempt to make that happen. We need to leave behind a testimony that we existed, breathed, walked on this earth, and lived out a story. We hope they visit “us” with gratitude and good memories.

I visited the Vietnam Memorial several years ago and was profoundly moved by the beauty and simplicity of thousands of names engraved on the curving black wall. The arrangement of the names, all the same size, inspired reverence and gratitude for the young men and women who gave their lives. Even for those of us who did not support the war, this memorial seems appropriate. It serves a good and necessary purpose.

And, of course, another key purpose for a memorial site is to provide a place where our friends and family can come to remember us and celebrate our lives. But I have to ask myself,  will our kids and grandkids and friends really visit, after the death rites are over and done? My parents are buried in a small site in Fallbrook, California. It’s far from my home and I’ve only visited it once; but I think of them frequently, with gratitude. I trust the memories we’ve created with our kids and grandkids are stronger than granite. Even so, I’m glad I have my name on that wall. For them.

I realize that probably pride is driving my embarrassment at the size of our engraving. I don’t want other people to judge us arrogant or self-promoting. Which is silly. We know we are not that way. More importantly, God knows.

We think we’ll just leave it. Not that we have much choice. Erase an engraving in granite? Hal suggested removing and replacing the whole slab. Not going to happen.

I’ve decided to rest in peace (even while staying alive). I’ve also decided I won’t go to look at it again.

Now that that’s settled, I think I’ll write my obituary. I’m going for hilarious. 

Stuff

 Stuff is one of my favorite words. I like the round plump way it feels in my mouth. I like the way it starts with a hiss, slowly snaking its way toward the light, only to come to an abrupt halt (we call it an alveolar stop in linguistics, in case you wanted to know), then ending in a slow flat leak of carbon dioxide (a labio-dental fricative). There’s a lot going on in your mouth when you say the “simple” word stuff.

But more than the sound and feel of the word, I like what it means and, more importantly, how it means.

As with many words that appear simple, time spent in the Oxford English Dictionary quickly dispels that illusion. The noun stuff can mean a variety of things from supplies and possessions to textiles suitable for clothing, and even academic subject matter, as in “This teacher really knows his stuff.” It can mean something lofty, a fundamental substance, such as “the stuff of greatness.” Or it can be as specialized as the spin on a fast flying baseball (a new one to me). And, of course, we also have many verb meanings, derivatives (some very edible), and even a few expletives (among which “O stuff and bother!” is the safest for Quakers to use).

There’s a lot of “what” to the word stuff, but the “how” is perhaps more significant. Stuff, in short, is not a reverent word. It is not likely to ever be incorporated into a liturgical prayer, carved onto a memorial plaque, or sung at a wedding. It struts down the halls with a casual, cocky air. Look closely and you’ll see a twinkle in its eye. It’s crossing its fingers behind its back.

Let’s consider stuff in the sense of personal property or possessions. “Hands off! This is my stuff!”

It’s precisely because of the irreverent casual feel of this word that I like to apply it to my possessions. In my heart of hearts, I find myself attached to my stuff in a most unholy way. When someone threatens to take what belongs to me, my emotions flare up. I can become very distressed at breaking some valued pot. Little kids running through my rooms unnerve me.

Labeling my things as stuff helps me put them in perspective. I desire to become less and less possessed by my possessions, freer to value what’s really valuable (like little kids).

As missionaries in Bolivia, we stored our stuff in big barrels every time we came back to the States on furlough. These barrels had to be properly labeled in case something happened to us and the remaining mission staff had to sort, send, or sell our possessions. One time, in a fit of whimsy, I labeled our barrels “General Stuff,” “Specific Stuff,” “Favorite Stuff,” and “Stuff I could get along without if I had to but would prefer to keep if it’s all the same to whoever is reading this label.” (That one took five labels!) Fortunately, nothing happened to us.)

I have this recurring Walter-Mitty-type daydream where my house and all my possessions burn down, but we escape unharmed. I remain calm and spiritual throughout the ordeal. When someone, dripping with pity, says to me, “I hear you were wiped out by the fire,” I reply, serenely and cheerfully, “Oh no, I’m still here, as good as ever. Just my stuff got burned.”

In my saner moments I laugh at that daydream. I know that a real fire would devastate me, that I would lose not only my “General Stuff,” but also my family photos, the teddy-bear my daughter bought me, my great grandmother’s wedding dress, the stories the kids wrote when they were little, and other things I deeply value. I would need help in dealing with loss. This is reality.

Now in my retirement years, downsizing is an ongoing assignment. We simply don’t have the space for a lot of books, nick-nacks, cookware, extra sheets and blankets, and on and on it goes. We don’t want to leave a lot of these decisions to our kids (who, actually, would probably find it easier to dispose of our stuff). So we continue to shrink, both in terms of our bodies and our possessions. It’s not easy.

John Woolman inspires me to put my possessions in perspective. I am especially drawn to the story in his journal about his growing retail business and his struggle with the “stuff and bother” of material success. He finally concludes that “Truth required me to live more free from outward cumbers,” and simplifies his business so that he can give himself to traveling and encouraging his brothers and sisters in the Quaker family. Cumbers is another good word for stuff.

Jesus reminds us that God knows our need of adequate shelter, clothing, and food. Our Father is generous. We are to seek first his kingdom and righteousness, and he will supply all the stuff we really need (Matthew 6:33, Thomas version).

I need to be frequently reminded of this. I’m still far from John Woolman’s courageous act of throwing it all off. I’m still cumbered by more stuff than I need. But the desire for freedom and simplicity is growing. I pray God will help me to hold my possessions more lightly, and to know that, no matter how pretty, bright, or enticing, when all is said and done—it’s just stuff.

--Adapted from an essay published in The Evangelical Friend, 1992.

The weight of years

 The Book of Jeremiah is heavy. Long and exceedingly gloomy. One disaster follows another in the prophet’s personal life: called in his youth to a task he felt totally inadequate for, he went out and preached Bad News to the nations and, for all his work, ended up dying exiled in Egypt. Not to mention that his mission was a failure. He persisted in obedience to God (and was, in that sense, deeply successful) but no one repented and the prophesied disasters took place.

Jeremiah warns the people of Jerusalem that unless they repent of their idolatrous ways, the wrath of the Lord will be poured out on “the children in the street and on the young men gathered together; both husband and wife will be caught in it, and the old, those weighed down with years” (6:11). At this point I want to leave behind the gloomy prophet and focus on his definition of old people: “those weighed down with years.”

Talk about heavy! And yet this may not be an exaggeration.

In this retirement community, the older people get, the more they tend to walk with a stoop, as if some vast heaviness is sitting on their shoulders. Walking sticks, canes, walkers, and, in time wheel chairs mark the movement from one stage to another.

The aging body testifies to weight in other ways, with sagging muscles and a spreading out in a strange redistribution of mass. It’s definitely harder to lose weight, diet and exercise aside. And, on the other end of the weight spectrum, many people lose too much weight as they approach the end of life. Loss of appetite and zero energy level aren’t states-of-being any of us look forward to.

The years can weigh us down ways that affect more than the body. Regrets, past traumas, unhealed relationships—these touch most of us from time to time in the journey that is aging. Many people achieve maturity and manage to face the past and move on. Other people live in this dark place, and that is heavy, indeed.

The word weight has other meanings, of course. One is denominational. In my family of faith we have the term weighty Friend. It’s an old term, not used as much in these days. I wish it were; it always makes me smile, in spite of the gravitas it carries. I think, “Fat Old Quaker.” Seriously, it refers to older respected Friends who have proven themselves trust-worthy over time. Their words carry weight and people take them very seriously.

And then we have the association of weight with glory. C.S. Lewis wrote a marvelous essay entitled, “The Weight of Glory,” coming from what St. Paul wrote in 2 Corinthians 4:16-17: “Even though our outward [being] is perishing, yet the inward [person] is being renewed day by day. For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.” Lewis sees the weight of glory as something we shall attain in the presence of God. Glory means “acceptance by God, response, acknowledgment, and welcome into the heart of God.” It also means “brightness, splendour, luminosity.” It’s a golden glory, and gold is the heaviest metal. Yet our transformed bodies will be able to bear the weight of all this glory. That’s certainly something to look forward to, no matter what is going on in our current aging bodies.

I imagine it could make even Jeremiah smile.

Sentimental “P”

Do you have a favorite color? How many times have people asked you that? You probably have an answer; for me it’s all shades of blue. People have favorite colors. We also have favorite songs, favorite flowers, favorite fruit, and sometime favorite Bible verses or poems, although these tend to change with time. It’s part of our humanness to have personal tastes and perspectives.

But a favorite letter of the alphabet? Who has one of those?

Well, I do.

It all started when I was three years old. My parents valued education and wanted to give me a head start, so they began teaching me the alphabet song. It’s bouncy and easy to memorize, even if it doesn’t make any sense. And it didn’t, at first.

You know it—a,b,c,d,e,f,g and so on. The problem was the middle part. The letters between k and p are sung at a faster rate and they run together. My child brain couldn’t separate the sounds or repeat them. It was “blahblahblahblah p.”

I finally figured it out with the help of my mom’s favorite song on the radio. I now know that the song was called “Sentimental Journey.” The word I glopped onto was “sentimental.” It had just the right number of syllables and could be said quickly. So I resolved the conflict with a “sentimental p.” It worked and now I could sing the whole song.

When I asked my mom what “sentimental” meant, she said something about feeling kind and loving toward something. Without any logical reflection (remember, three-years-old) I began bonding with such a sweet good-natured letter. I hoped I could be like the letter p when I grew up.

I did grow up, of course, and became somewhat more logical. I’ve since learned the alphabet in various languages and have left behind any romantic fantasies about individual letters. But childhood affections run deep and I’ll admit to still having warm feelings about the letter p.

Think of all the great words than begin with p. There’s peace, pleasure, poetry, plecostomus(1), passion, plethora, panorama, pantheon, people, prayer, poplar, ponder. I could go on and on, but you get the point. A marvelous letter. What’s not to love?

During my active adult years, I frequently pondered my life’s priorities. Over time I came to understand that God was calling me vocationally into three ways of being: prayer, poetry, and people. I did not intentionally try to find vocations that began with the letter p. Call it coincidence. I’ve always felt drawn to prayer, both in terms of mystical contemplative prayer and the more active intercessory prayer for the needs of the world. I’ve been a poet since age seven. And as a child of God I’m drawn to relationship, friendship, family—in short, people.

These were to be my priorities no matter what else was going on in my life. And plenty was going on. Education, marriage, kids, career, committees, church stuff, crises, and all the busy-ness that takes time and sucks energy. “Real life” it’s called. And so it’s been a challenge all my life to live out my priorities. I’ve had to be deliberate.

And sometimes it didn’t work. I’ve known long periods of prayerlessness. Several years I only managed to write a few uninspired poems. People were always around, of course, but I’ve known lean times in terms of genuine friendship.

And yet the Spirit never let me forget my vocations. No matter how much I wandered, I always circled home.  Prayer, poetry, and people.

Now that I’m retired, I’m realizing that the pressure of “real life” no longer needs to be a barrier. I’m free to give actual time to learning how to pray. I can clear space everyday to sit in silence and let the poems emerge. I can know and enjoy the people in my life, including my own family and all my neighbors in this community. I have time to listen.

This is all ideal, of course. “Real life” follows us into retirement communities, and it is totally possible to become wrapped up in a tangle of committees, obligations, and unnecessary commitments. But, the thing is, it’s more of a choice now. I can say NO. (I repeat to myself as needed, “I can say NO.”) And, of course, I am still human. I have bad days where I don’t give a hoot for priorities and want nothing to do with the letter p. Somedays, I wake up grumpy and, perversely, I enjoy it.

But eventually, the Spirit interrupts my complaints, reminds me I now have time to be who God made me to be. He draws me home again.

These are the so-called “golden years.” There’s gold hidden in the floor of this old growth forest.

Lord, help me to mine the gold by living out my priorities. Please. (Another great p-word, by the way.)

 (1)  Footnote: The plecostomus, otherwise known as the “suckermouth catfish,” is helpful in cleaning up algae in fish tanks. This is your factoid for the day.