Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about mortality, how everything dies. Frankly, I don’t care for it, even if it is part of the liturgy on Ash Wednesday: “From dust you came and to dust you shall return.” If I’m being completely honest, I despise mortality!
This became even more apparent recently when a colleague I taught with at the seminary was diagnosed with cancer. His wife had passed away, or he likely would have decided to fight it. Visiting him in the hospital, he told me that instead, he would be going home to die. I read a prayer for him from the Book of Common Prayer, partly because he is an Episcopalian and because nothing comes close to the beauty of that volume. Afterwards, in the parking lot I screamed out (to God?) how much I hated death. If the Apostle Paul could declare how Death has been defeated in Jesus’ resurrection (1 Cor 15:54-57), it sure didn’t feel that way to me, especially when my friend passed away a few weeks later. Where is Death’s sting? Everywhere!
I recently read The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue, about a woman who makes a deal with the Devil. Addie will live forever, but there’s a catch. Scrapes and bruises, life’s hardships—none of it will last. But neither will life’s simple pleasures, like a cup of tea with a friend. Worst of all, however, no one will remember her. If Addie meets someone at a party, a few minutes later they will introduce themselves again. A lot can be taken from the novel, but for me there was a smidgen of solace in enjoying life while we can, tea with friends and the like, even if an artificial hip might be required along the way.
Late in his life, the writer Henry Miller wrote a piece called “On Turning Eighty,” which reads in part: “If at eighty you’re not a cripple or an invalid, if you have your health, if you still enjoy a good walk, a good meal (with all the trimmings), if you can sleep without first taking a pill, if birds and flowers, mountains and sea still inspire you, you are a most fortunate individual and you should get down on your knees morning and night and thank the good Lord for his savin’ and keepin’ power.”
There’s also the Jewish notion that the dead will always live on in our memory. In the synagogue, it’s called Yahrzeit. Each week the names of all the deceased who were ever members of that congregation are called out during the service, marking the anniversary of their death. It might sound morbid, but it’s quite beautiful.
I think about my mom who died more than ten years ago now, and whose recipe for oatmeal cookies I came across recently. When they came out of the oven, I tasted not just some cookies. I tasted my childhood and my mother’s care for me growing up.
My mom’s name was, is Dorothy Ilene Graves. My former colleague’s name is Bill Stancil. They still live, along with so many others like them. And so do I. And so do you.
Rev. Dr. Mike Graves
