For Every Season
When I was in my teens, one of my uncles, along with his entire family, died in a car accident. I remember vividly the day my father got the phone call. On the other end of the line, a voice told him that my uncle and his family had been heading out of our hometown when their vehicle was crushed by a truck. The whole family, all four of them, died instantly. The tragedy had a profound effect on my parents. It reopened a wound in my mom’s heart, a wound left by the death of her first son, who was only eleven months old when he died. The fear of losing another child became the focus of her life, and she was tossed into a valley of depression that lasted years. My dad and grandma suffered in silence. All kinds of fears marked those years, but at the core was the fear of death.
The tragic accident changed them, but it didn’t seem to change me, at least not profoundly. I was a teenager looking at life through my own little prism, and I just thought that life was going to go on. I imagine that if the accident had involved my parents or a sibling, I would have been much more distraught. But to this day, what I remember most about that event are my cousins and how we used to play on my father’s farm during the summertime. I don’t focus on the horror of it all. I am somehow able to retain my adolescent viewpoint: death, even when accidental, is natural.
Somewhere along the way, as we mature and go through life’s seasons, facing life’s many ups and downs, we lose sight of how natural death is. We turn our focus to how the loss affects us personally. We grow fearful of death because we equate it with loss: one more disappointment, one more person to miss, one person fewer in our corner.
The death of a loved one has the potential to bring us full circle, to bring us back to the state of mind of our more spiritual, youthful self, when death, even tragic accidents, seemed normal. And then to take us further yet, to a place only those in the summer, fall, or winter of life can fully comprehend, until we reach the place where we look at death not through the prism of how it adversely changes our personal life but how it changes us personally. Death finally brings us to the core of our humanity, where we need to answer those universal questions, the ones boiling in every human’s heart, the questions of existence, purpose, and destiny.
For me, as I witness death and feel the loss of those around me nearly every day, I become more and more committed to living with intention. I tell my kids over and over that we need to aspire to minimize fear and regret at the end of life by living in the present—being intentional and enjoying each day to the fullest. Every time a loved one comes to mind, I text or call them. I have been doing this for the last six or seven years. I do not let those moments pass by. And it feels wonderful. I want to do this until my last breath. I want my life to run the course planned by God to the fullest—from beginning to end. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I could be in a car accident today or tomorrow, so I try to grab those precious moments that can truly build memories and that I imagine are part of fulfilling my life’s purpose.
People we love and who love us need to hear over and over that we love them, that we trust them, and that we value them. This is something that everyone silently asks of all the people around them—show me that you care, that you love me unconditionally, that you are quick to forgive me, and that you will not judge me. These are pearls of wisdom I’ve learned from my parents and my patients.
Death shows us how finite and fragile life is on this earth. When we accept that death is inevitable for ourselves, living with intention and in the present becomes far easier. We’re not unconsciously preoccupied with resentments and fears. We’re able to open up to the life before us and make the most of it now. When we do this, conditions are ripe for a full, authentic life, as well as for our own graceful exit.
No regrets, no fears, no chaos.
Just love.