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”

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