The time of year is fast approaching where the birds will start to sing, flowers will begin to bloom, Major League Baseball will begin its slow uphill climb in the ratings. In short, spring is about to be upon us. Spring, my personal favorite season (I’m kind of a garden nerd), the celebration of life anew and the refreshment of the living.
However, in a recent conversation with a dear friend of mine, I was reminded of another aspect of life that is on the whole less appealing. I was present at the hospital for the birth of my friend’s second child, and while we were on lunch, he remarked to me, “I only wish Dad were here to meet him. And I wish he could meet Dad, too.” My friend was referencing his father, who had passed on over a year beforehand.
I found myself without words. While we were celebrating his newborn son, he was simultaneously regretting the fact that his father wasn’t there. This stirred several thoughts in my head.
To begin, we are all fortunate to say that we still have family and friends among the living. After all, how boring would life be if we didn’t have people we could pester and annoy for everyone’s amusement?
But life has a natural, and at the same time, completely alien process by which it ends: Death. The prospect of dying can (and does!) scare a substantial number of people worldwide.
Yet, those of us who recognize and accept our mortality tend to view it as more of a motivating factor: If you only have so much time, how would you want it spent?
There is a certain unpleasant feeling most get when confronting the idea of deceased loved ones, but we should embrace the feeling – this is our affirmation that someone means a great deal to us. Even after they have passed, to remember them and to feel something, this is our reality check that the person was real and that while they lived and they were loved.
However, most people are confronted with a grief or feeling of regret when they remember dead relatives and friends. As if the person they are thinking of is simply forgotten, lost to the annals of history. Someone even once told me that the only record they would leave behind is a criminal one.
After giving it some thought, I came to the conclusion that being simply forgotten is very easy to do. Being remembered, by extension, must be much more difficult. And while death is an absolute certainty in our lives, immortality is far less certain, and can strike at any moment. To be dead and live forever – two goals that sound contradictory yet are more aligned than I-94.
I want you, the reader, to imagine your universe – everyone you know and love, your pets, children, parents, siblings, significant others, neighbors, friends, and church groups. Now remove yourself from that picture.
What would it look like? Life would go on, for sure, but you would most certainly be missed. All those around you would mourn your passing. You would be engrained in your loved ones memories, and they would remember you as they thought of you best – as a child, the day you graduated from college, the day you got your license, etc. (And remember – mourning is a process that can take years. So don’t tell your buddy to lighten up two months after his father’s funeral – he won’t, and it will strain your friendship.)
Once the mourning process is complete, you would graduate to being remembered.
Memories are the vehicles by which we are able to continue on, long after we have stopped functioning. Immortality, it seems, is nothing more than loving those around you as hard as you can, with every fiber of your being.
Now, back to my friend. I had the fortune to meet his father several times prior to his passing, and he really was a great guy. Did we know each other on a first-name basis? Maybe not. Did we get drunk together at the local dive on Saturday nights? No. But, I got a chance to work on vehicles with the man, and he was able to teach me a few things about brake lines.
That was his parting gift to me. That is the piece of him that lives on through me.
To be sure, he lives on through his children, his grandchildren, his friends and family, his co-workers and others whose lives he influenced. And while we all miss him, in a way, we all still have him.
Just like my garden with the seasons. Every spring, I plant whatever fruits and veggies I can obtain cheaply.
In late summer, I harvest those that weren’t destroyed by the weather, eaten by pests, or stolen by neighbors. In autumn, my plants flower brightly and produce pretty colors. Then winter kills everything I grow.
Yet, every year, the plants that die decompose and become nutrients by the next spring, so that I can grow living things there once again. Life begins, ends, and then continues. Just like us.
Author’s note: MATC recently hosted a seminar expressing the wonderful value of every person’s life, and suicide prevention.
If someone you know feels the need to reach out, or has expressed the desire to end their lives in any way, PLEASE have them call:
1-800-273-TALK (8255) or visit www.suicidepreventiononline.org.