Great Full Heart

“He is a wise man who does not grieve for the things which he has not, but rejoices for those which he has.” ~ Epictetus, Greek Stoic Philosopher (55-135 AD)

It was 7:00 AM and William O’Shaughnessy was singing at the top of his lungs. “Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra, Too-ra-loo-ra-li” was supposed to be a lullaby. But the zeal with which William sang, even with his smooth Irish Tenor voice, made it sound more like reveille. Just as he was beginning the song again, for the second time, Emily appeared at the door, hands fisted on her hips. “Must you sing so early every morning?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye. “Yes, I must,” replied William with a brogue as think as Guinness. He gave her a wink and started into his second chorus. “But why do you sing every morning and why do you sing so loudly?” she persisted.

O’Shaughnessy stopped and looked at Emily for a moment. “I sing every morning because I can, and to remind the good Lord that I’m still here” he replied, grinning from ear to ear. “You see,” he continued, a bit more seriously, “I wake every morning with an attitude of gratitude and it so overwhelms me I just have to sing.” “Every morning I am grateful that I am still alive…that I am looking down at the grass instead of up at it.” “But that’s not the only thing.” “I am grateful to have a sweet face like yours to greet me, and food to eat, and a roof over my head and a warm bed in which to spend the dark of night.” “I am so blessed I can’t help but sing.” Spontaneously he resumed, “Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra, Too-ra-loo-ra-li”.

Emily just shook her head, grinning to herself. This had become their morning ritual. She crossed the room pulled back the curtains and opened the blinds. Mr. O’Shaughnessy’s singing went better with sunshine spilling into the room. She performed her duties delaying as long as she could. Finally there was nothing left to do, but the thing she dreaded most. She went to the foot of the bed and carefully pulled back the sheet and blanket so she could check the bandages.

William O’Shaughnessy had worked in the rail yards for 43 years before he had lost both legs, just below the knees, in what could only be described as a “freak accident”. He had been pinned between two freight cars for over an hour. “Battlefield amputations” were performed in an effort to save him, but giving him only the slimmest chance of survival. Emily still remembered the day they brought him in. It seemed from the moment he regained consciousness he had started singing or at least humming. The friends and family, who seemed to be there all the time, assured her, “He’s always been like this.” His big Irish voice announcing his arrival and departure with song. He caught her staring at his legs. “Have they grown any,” he asked with mock seriousness, then broke into a laugh. “They look just fine,” Emily replied with a forced smile.

Emily, replaced the blanket, stuck her hands in the pockets of her scrubs and headed for the door. “Do you think you could put some O’Donoghue’s beef stew and a Murphy’s Irish Stout on the luncheon menu?” he asked, almost hopefully. This tea and Jello diet is gittin’ a wee bit ald.” “I’ll put an order in with the Leprechauns who run the kitchen” she replied on her way out the door. His voice escorted her down the hall:

“Oft in dreams I wander, to that cot again.
I feel her arms a-huggin' me, as when she held me then.
And I hear her voice a -hummin' to me as in days of yore.
When she used to rock me fast asleep outside the cabin door.”

Bishop Emeritus Eugene John Gerber, of the Diocese of Wichita, Kansas, one of the founders of Stewardship formation, has a famous saying “A grateful heart silences a complaining voice.” As Christian Stewards we are called upon to receive God’s gifts gratefully and to return them with increase.

Unfortunately gratitude seems to be viewed by many of us as something as perfunctory as the “thank you” we say to the speaker at the drive up window of our favorite purveyor of fast food. We treat it as if it were only a duty or an obligation to be grateful…a politeness or courtesy…a social convention.

In point of fact, gratitude, the ability to be grateful, is its own gift. It has tremendous power and helps us overcome many of the demons which assail us in daily life. Gratitude is not just a silencer of complaints, but it is a door to a happier life…a door we often have trouble opening due to the personal issues most of us share.

Disappointment, the unhappiness we experience, because we did not get what we wanted or expected, is a matter of us not being grateful for what we have. Happiness stems from wanting what you have, rather than having what you wanted.

More importantly gratitude helps us overcome the feeling that life has treated us unfairly. Disappointment is when we don’t get what we want, but the feeling of life treating us unfairly is a matter of “I was just minding my own business when something bad happened”; like a financial crisis or an accident. And here in lays the story of William O’Shaughnessy. Most of us would say that Bill O’Shaughnessy had “every right to complain.” It’s as if we are saying “He is entitled to be ungrateful.” Yet, his most grateful heart fuels a rejoicing voice rather than a complaining one. Some of us would call his seemingly hyper-positive attitude a coping mechanism. But, unlike some people who “fake it till they make it” Bill’s joyful exterior arises out of what lies deep within…a grateful heart. A heart which sees only the good things in his life.

Dear God: teach me to trade my attitude for gratitude.

“The unthankful heart... discovers no mercies; but let the thankful heart sweep through the day and, as the magnet finds the iron, so it will find, in every hour, some heavenly blessings!” ~Henry Ward Beecher, Congregational clergyman, social reformer, abolitionist and speaker (1813-1887)

© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.

“90 Second Stewardship” All rights are reserved. You are welcomed and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message. Questions or comments may be directed to Jim Carper by return e-mail or at the contact information found below.

Muerte

“A good teacher is like a candle - it consumes itself to light the way for others.” ~Author Unknown

The tires chirped on the runway as Mexicana flight 137 touched down at Mexico City International. He had not expected to return to Mexico so soon, but he hadn’t expected his primo (cousin) to die so suddenly either. Rogelio (or Rodger to his family and friends) was 78.

The cab driver put the luggage in the trunk securing the trunk lid with a bungee cord. The cost of the ride to his cousin’s house was negotiated before the driver would even put his bags in the trunk. Everything operated on the barter system here.

When the cab arrived at the house several of Rodger’s grandchildren came bounding out of the house, scampering to the cab to greet him. They chattered simultaneously, asking all kinds of questions, while the cab driver did his best to extricate the luggage from the trunk. The bags on the curb and a tip in his shirt pocket the cabby headed off down the street looking for his next fare.

With more help than he needed from the children Rodger’s cousin managed to get the bags to the porch. By this time the rest of the family had come out to greet him. After all the perfunctory hugs, kisses, back slaps and handshakes had been completed he and his luggage were swept into the house with the crowd of family members.

Once inside, the children’s interest shifted from the bags to something seemingly more important. They grabbed his arms and began tugging at them in an effort to lead him out the back of the house to the patio. He allowed himself to be directed to the back edge of the yard where he was confronted by a pile a stones with a small wooden cross at the head of it. “It looks like a grave,” he remarked to the children. “Si” they all said simultaneously, almost singing the word.

“Our old dog is buried there,” blurted out one of the boys. “You did a very nice job” the cousin remarked. “Oh we didn’t do this by ourselves,” the oldest girl replied, with an air of confidence only big sisters can have. “Grandpapa showed us and helped us.” “Si”, said another. “He explained all about ‘being dead’ to us.” The simultaneous chatter resumed as each of the children enthusiastically explained what they had learned from Grandpapa about “muerte”.

Finally, one of the female cousins came to the back door and called to them. The mole’, which had been simmering all day, was ready, as was the pollo and tortillas. It was time to eat. It seemed there was always food for family, always ready, always calling to any who visited. Just as Rodger's love had always been there, ready to accept and embrace. Rodger had visited his cousin in the music of the children’s laughter and the incense of the mole’.

The children lead him back to the house…this time pushing and pulling. Fausto didn’t mind. He was still marveling at what his primo, the children’s Grandfather, had left as his legacy…wisdom!

Death is not something we like to talk about with our families. It is the proverbial “elephant in the living room.” We are frail creatures and it is hard to admit our own mortality, let alone discuss it openly. The death of a family pet can be troubling for children (and adults).

Rodger, rather than shielding his grandchildren from the death of the family pet, walked a very different path. He made the event a gift of wisdom for his grandchildren and, in so doing, sanctified the event. This meant taking the time to walk the children through the process of burying the dog, gently explaining what had happened to the dog, and answering their questions frankly and kindly. In so doing, whether intentionally or not, he prepared them for his own death. In the Catholic Church we would call this catechesis.

When Fausto came for the funeral the grandchildren were able to pass along their new found understanding to him, which, in turn, allowed him to visit his cousin Roger again, but in a new way…through the wisdom of the children and their enthusiasm in sharing it.

This is one of the wonderful gifts of stewardship…to be able to see the gift within, what would be to most of us, a troubling event. Rodger approached this opportunity, this gift, in such a way, as to make it much more than what it was. Rodger returned it to God with increase. Some might call this “victory over death.”

Dear God, remind me daily that everything is a gift from you, to be returned with increase.

“A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops.” ~Henry Brooks Adams, American journalist, historian, academic and novelist (1838-1913)

© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.

“90 Second Stewardship” You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.

Reality?

“Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.” ~Albert Einstein, theoretical physicist & most influential scientist of the 20^th Century (1879-1955)

“You’re not my Mary!” Alice yelled loudly. Mary recoiled at her mother’s frustration. “My Mary is only seven years old…not some old lady like you!” Mary’s eyes began to well up. Every visit was like this. She would try desperately to convince her mother (Alice) she was in fact her daughter Mary, but to no avail. Every visit ended with Alice frustrated…yelling and Mary in tears. Mary knew her Mom wouldn’t be around much longer and she also knew she would have to bear the guilt of not having visited her more frequently, but her visits left wounds which were much too deep. Why couldn’t her own Mother just acknowledge who she was?

She left the room quietly dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a tissue her nose as red as a drunk’s on New Year’s Eve. Mary knew the door code by heart (it was Christmas backwards…2512). She buzzed herself out. Traversing the long hallway, she finally reached the lobby. “Mary!” The gentle baritone voice stopped her halfway to the automatic exterior doors. Mary turned to see John coming toward her. John, the facility director, was kind, gentle and always seemed to be smiling. “How are things going with your Mom?” he asked cheerfully. “Just fine,” Mary replied, unable to generate much sincerity. John examined Mary’s face for what seemed like a long time. “Alice is giving you some trouble isn’t she?” he said quietly. The tears came unexpectedly and flowed uncontrollably. “She doesn’t even know who I am,” she wailed. “Her own daughter.” “She thinks I’m still a little girl.” “Why won’t she believe me?” “What am I doing wrong?” John quietly let the outburst run its course. “What should I do?” Mary said finally.

John gently guided Mary to a seating area in they lobby. He gestured for her to sit down and sat down across from her. “Do you have any pictures of your self at the age your mother remembers you?” “Of course…lots of them,” she replied. “What I am going to suggest to you may sound odd at first,” John continued. “But often with dementia patients you have to meet them wherever they are at the time.” “You mean indulge her fantasy?” Mary sounded offended. “You wouldn’t be indulging a fantasy”, John said matter-of-factly. “Your Mother’s memories are quite real to her and actually quite genuine.” Mary sat there staring at John for what seemed like minutes. Finally she popped open her purse and tossed the soiled tissue into it. “I’ll try anything at this point.” Her statement punctuated by the snap of her purse closing. “Good,” replied John as they stood. “If you need any guidance, just ask me,” his smile lighting up his face again.

The next Saturday Mary arrived with a thick album full of photos under velum. She took a deep breath as she buzzed herself into the dementia wing. Alice was sitting quietly in her room, propped up in a wing backed chair, staring out the window. Bathed in sunlight she looked very old and frail. Mary cleared her throat as she came in, to prevent startling her Mother. “What do you want?” Alice said with an edge as she turned from the window. “Just to visit,” Mary said as calmly as she could. “I have some pictures to show you,” she continued. “I don’t want to see any pictures,” snapped Alice turning back to the window. “They are of your daughter” remarked Mary quietly… holding her breath. “My Mary?” Alice responded, brightening immediately. “Yes, your Mary.” Mary could feel a lump forming in her throat but she pressed on. She dragged a chair over and plopped down next to her Mom. Gently laying the album on her Mother’s lap she opened it carefully.

Alice starred at it for a long time, her finger tips barely touching the page. It seemed as if she were afraid the pictures weren’t real. Then, slowly, she began describing the events in each picture, seeming to remember as she went. “I remember this one.” “Here’s my Mary sled riding” Slowly she started to tell the stories surrounding the picture at which she was looking. “This is commerce hill at old Mr. Finley’s farm.”

Mary’s usual ten minute visit stretched to an hour and a quarter. Finally, a nurse’s aid came into the room to put Alice down for her nap. Mary got up to leave. She shrugged on her coat and headed for the door. “Would you come and see me again?” Alice said from her bed. “Sure” replied Mary with a smile and “I’ll bring more pictures.” “That would be nice” Alice said sleepily. “Goodbye Mum” Mary said without thinking. “Goodbye Mary” came the voice from behind her. She stopped and turned, but her mother’s eyes were already fluttering shut. “I love you”, Mary whispered under her breath, the lump in her throat returning.

Mary headed out into the hall hugging the album to her chest the sound of her mother’s voice still hanging in the air. She would be back the next day with another album. She keyed in the door code. “Merry Christmas…backwards” she thought with a lingering smile.

There is a sad misconception that there is one giant reality within which we all reside. If you don’t reside there you are somehow mentally and/or emotionally deficient. Actually, we drag our own personal realities around with us like our own little world. These individual realities are comprised of bits and pieces of memories, fragments of experiences, things discarded and things over which we obsess; our cultural imprint and our beliefs, or what we think we believe. In short, we edit, select and create what we call reality. Our reality is our own personal mythology. In this age of clinical accuracy, high definition and so called reality television programs (those are edited too by the way) it is hard for most of us to accept that our realities are, in many ways, of our own making and far beyond the “real” in “reality”.

My sister and I share a memory of riding with my mother when she went to visit my father in the hospital. He had been injured while working in the steel mills in Pittsburgh. Oddly, neither of us remembers the other one going along. Whose memory is accurate? In point of fact, it doesn’t really matter! The accuracy of our memories is irrelevant. Our realities have become part of our “mythology”.

Much of the strife in our life comes when realities collide. This is not to say there are not people with genuine mental illnesses and real depravities. But most of us “so called” mentally healthy people spend an inordinate amount of time trying to drag each other, kicking and screaming into each others’ reality. It is difficult enough to accept we don’t reside in the same reality with a dementia patient. It is even more difficult to accept it in relatively normal people. As a friend once pointed out: “Tell me someone we know who you would call ‘normal’?”

As stewards of others we are often called upon to meet people within their own realities rather than trying to kidnap them and take them to ours. This is what Mary learned. When she met Alice in here own reality she discovered a new world, a new way to connect with her mother. As the weeks went on she heard stories about herself she never knew. Even more importantly, she was able to experience the depth to which her mother loved her. It didn’t matter that it was in a different time frame…a different reality…it was genuine. Sometimes the door code is backwards.

Dear God, remind me always that I am as much a steward of the realities of others as I am of my own.

“There are no facts, only interpretations.” ~Friedrich Nietzsche, 19^th Century German philosopher and philologist (1844-1900)

© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.

“90 Second Stewardship” i All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.

Healed

“We are healed of a suffering only by experiencing it to the full.” ~Marcel Proust, French novelist, critic and essayist (1871-1922)

I stood there facing my family. The white enameled double doors behind me had just closed. On the other side two caretakers were carefully closing my mother’s brushed silver casket for her last ride home. How she loved going for drives. She once rode with me from Washington, Pennsylvania to DeKalb, Illinois to find an apartment for graduate school. We stayed overnight at a Motel 6 and drove back. This last ride would only take a few minutes.

The Lay Minister, officiating over the funeral, asked me to say a few words of remembrance. Me? What would I say to the family who, for the past ten years, had been more involved in my mother’s life than I had been? What could I say to the people who had visited her several days a week and who had taken responsibility for her care while I lived on the other side of the country; only coming home once or twice a year? What could I say that they didn’t already know and which wouldn’t sound disingenuous?

My family is like every other family. Over the years we have had our share of skirmishes. Alliances have been made and broken. Battle lines drawn; truces negotiated and demilitarized zones created. Amidst it all marriages were held, babies were birthed, holidays celebrated, relocations and job changes endured and even a war survived. Amidst it all we remained a family. Dysfunctional? Yes! But show me a family who you consider functional? Declaring a family functional is like declaring someone “functionally illiterate”.

My mouth finally opened and I began to speak. To my surprise I talked about being human. I spoke about my mother’s obsessions: like the year we drank apple cider vinegar every day because it was a miracle curative. But mostly I talked about family. Five children, ten grandchildren and five great grand children later we are still trying to figure this life thing out. Each child has taken their turn being the youngest, garnering the most attention, weathering the resentment of being replaced as the youngest, finally surviving the awkward moments of adolescence and weathering their Uncles’, Aunts’ and parents’ scrutiny of their latest crush or lack thereof.

My brief reflection closed with a food commentary. After all these years we still break bread together. Some of our foods are traditional, though not for any religious or ethnic reason. They are traditional almost exclusively because we like them and none of them are particularly healthy either. Most of our “traditional dishes” were gleaned from magazines of the 50’s, mostly McCall’s, tested in our mother’s kitchen and validated at our dinner table.

During my “words of remembrance” people chimed in. Reminding me of things I had forgotten. It was more like a dialogue than a speech. The brief interjections were reminiscent of the many stories told at our dinner table. It is unlikely you will get through any story in my house without at least a few interruptions so you better have a good grasp of your material or learn to surrender the floor graciously.

I finished, the funeral service ended and the mourners filed out toward the coat racks (it was in the twenties with a wind). The casket slid effortlessly into the waiting hearse and the door closed with a solid bank vault sound. We dispersed to our cars and began the orderly drive to the cemetery and my parents’ crypt which, at my father’s request, overlooked a duck pond. Dad was already waiting there for Mom.

Too many of us assume being a member of a family means being responsible for fixing other family members. If we are to be stewards of our families we must focus ourselves on healing not on fixing. A fix is quick and temporary. A repaired object is commonly weaker that it was originally. After all fixes are meant to be temporary rather than permanent. But “fixing" can be dangerously satisfying. It makes us feel as if we have “done something.” We have handled the situation. We are lulled into a sense of security and accomplishment with minimal effort by the “quick fix”. It is no coincidence the term “fix” is street slang for temporarily satisfying a drug habit.

Healing, on the other hand, takes time. Helping a person “heal”, particularly when we’re talking about healing emotions, may mean waiting…seeming to do nothing at all except being present. Healing requires we share someone else’s experience. Fixing, on the other hand, avoids experiencing anything, by superficially solving the problem, then moving on. It is a “hit and run” tactic.

Yes, healing takes time and it may even leave a scar, but the one who is healed is stronger than they were previously. Scars are a good thing. They tell us where we have been, but they don’t necessarily determine where we are going. Our families and family members are not to meant to be fixed or managed, they are meant to be experienced and embraced...they are meant to heal.

Death is daunting because we can’t fix it, but grief can be an opportunity to heal. It opens windows of opportunity beyond simply closing the lid of a casket. Raw emotions can be destructive, but they can also point us toward the raw realities of our lives. We have a choice to heal our wounds or to tear them open. Healing changes us for the better. Wounds happen and are often unavoidable. Families are not perfect, nor should they be. They would be pretty boring if they were.

Dear God, help me to help others heal.

“Expertise cures, but wounded people can best be healed by other wounded people. Only other wounded people can understand what is needed, for the healing of suffering is compassion, not expertise.” ~Rachel Naomi Remen, MD, Clinical Professor, proponent of holistic medicine, American author best known for Kitchen Table Wisdom

© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.

“90 Second Stewardship” All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.

Consummation

"As a well spent day brings happy sleep, so a life well spent brings happy death."

~Leonardo da Vinci

The invitations began arriving in the family’s mailboxes. At first glance they appeared to be Grandma Braddock’s typical invitations to one of the Sunday dinners, for which she was renowned. The 81-year old matriarch of the Braddock clan was fond of bringing the family together for one of her famous meals two or three times a year usually in conjunction with a holiday season. This time it was different. This time the date of the dinner fell within an inauspicious time of year. In addition, on every single invitation, written in Grandma Braddock’s fine and careful hand, was a note: “Attendance is not optional”. Grandma always expected you to show up for her dinners and you received a healthy dose of guilt if you didn’t, but she had never before made attendance a “command performance”.

The day finally came and the family, every single one of them, kids and all, showed up at the large ambling farm house which had rested on the same acreage for five generations. Grandma’s Grandfather had built it with the help of the neighbors and the local farm hands. The table was set in the ample dining room, but ancillary seating was provided in two other rooms, at folding card tables, for the younger family members. Dinner was a feast replete with country ham, green beans with bacon, baked sweet potatoes and home made rolls. When Grandma Braddock had turned seventy she began relegating herself to supervising the meal preparation. She shared her recipes openly never withholding secret ingredients or preparation techniques. Blood relatives and In-laws alike were welcomed into the process. Her kitchen wasn’t gender exclusive either and under her tutelage several of her teenage grandsons had become “right fine” bread bakers and cookie makers.

The meal ended, except for dessert, and the family adjourned to the front room with their cups of coffee and glasses of sweet tea. Grandma Braddock sent the younger children (under twelve) out back to play under the watchful eyes of a couple of her neighbors, but everyone else was expected to stay. Grandma eased herself down into her favorite rocker. She picked up a small loose leaf notebook and a stack of file folders from her knitting basket and placed them on her lap. Then she cast her gaze around the room making eye contact with each and every person, assuring she had their undivided attention.

She began with a voice as clear and bright as a spring morning. “I suppose you are wondering why I asked you all to come for dinner today.” (She hadn’t asked, they had been summoned.) “I asked you all here today to help me plan my funeral.” The air seemed to go out of the room. There was a stunned silence, but before anyone could object she put up her hand like a traffic cop, in Times Square at rush hour. “Now before you all start whinin’ or asking me a bunch of questions let me explain.” “First, there’s nothing wrong with me…least ways nothing that I know of.” (At this statement people began to relax a bit.) “The reason I’m doing this now is because when my time comes and I’m lying in that casket, I want you all to be focused on me, not squabblin’ like a bunch of hens over a hand full of chicken feed.” (This remark brought some chuckles from the assembly.) “In other words, rather than you all arguing over what you think I would have wanted, I’m gonna tell you what I want.”

And with that she opened her notebook and proceeded to run right down the list. It was all there: the casket had been selected, the music chosen, a list made of friends who needed to be contacted, even the designated inscription on her half of the tombstone (grandpa had long since gone home to his reward). Everything had been arranged, prepared and prepaid. She had built in contingency plans as well. “Now if that ‘old fart’, Pastor Jenkins, goes before I do, just have that new young Associate do the funeral…he needs the practice anyway.” She remarked off handedly. Grandma Braddock carefully delegated assignments by giving small folders to each of her “helpers”. Her master plan (her notebook) would be securely tucked away in her safety deposit box. She didn’t stop with the funeral either, but proceeded to outline the stipulations in her will, making sure no one would be surprised. She even offered anyone, who wanted one; a copy of the will…no one had the courage to take her up on her offer. Finally, she deliberately closed her notebook and, once again, scanned the room.

“Any questions?” she asked. Johnny, her oldest, and probably her favorite, was leaning against the archway which opened into the dining room. His coffee cup, held in his right hand rested on the saucer in his left. “Thought you called us all here to plan your funeral,” he said with a grin. “Looks to me like you’ve already got it all under control.” Grandma Braddock shot him a sharp look, but there was a twinkle in her eye and a smile hidden underneath. “Couldn’t expect this bunch to figure it all out themselves could I…it woulda been like herding cats,” she replied curtly. “Billy,” she turned to her twelve year old great-grandson nearby. “Help me out of this chair.” “Those pies we had cooling on the sill ought to be just about ready.” “After all this work I could use me a slice of warm apple pie and some hard ice cream.” She headed for the kitchen, but she left a sense of relief in her wake. The elephant in the room had been dispatched.

Death is not something we like to talk about. In fact, most of us avoid using the word death as if its very enunciation will conjure it into existence. We permit ourselves to use “nice” terms like he “passed away” or she “went home to heaven”. In point of fact, it is our unwillingness to talk about dying which gives death its power over us. Grandma Braddock, being the old farm woman that she was, knew we must prepare for ever season. We must prepare for planting, for harvest and finally the winter when the fields seem to die. By discussing it openly and frankly with everyone she demystified the process and did everything within her power to put her family in the best possible position to deal with her death. They would be able to focus on their mourning not on the stress of making decisions on a variety of details.

There is, however, much more to being stewards of our own death than greasing the wheels for our families by making our funeral preparations in advance. Grandma Braddock didn’t simply prepare her family for her death by planning her funeral. She took steps to assure a continuation of the family unit by relinquishing responsibility for family customs and traditions, such as meal preparation, to others. Not only did she assure there would be no “squabbling” at her funeral, or over here will, she also made sure simple things like the preparation of family meals could continue without her. That her family would continue to bond while breaking bread together even if the bread was baked by a teenage boy. By relinquishing control she assured her legacy would continue. In a sense she will live on in the things she has taught other family members.

Death can not, must not, be viewed simply as a cessation of bodily functions. Grandma Braddock understood there was a difference between waiting for death and preparing for death. She also understood preparing for death was much more than making funeral plans. As uncomfortable as it may seem we need to make our lives a preparation for our deaths. Death is a crescendo not a denouement…it is the consummation of our lives not simply a well scripted conclusion.

Dear God, help me to live my life so that my death will be its consummation.

"Normally we do not like to think about death.
We would rather think about life.
Why reflect on death?
When you start preparing for death you soon realize that you must look into your life now... and come to face the truth of your self.
Death is like a mirror in which the true meaning of life is reflected."

~ Sogyal Rinpoche Buddhist Teacher and Author

© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.

“90 Second Stewardship”

All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.