Change, the only constant…

 “There are no beginnings or endings;

only the journey…”

– anonymous

When I was a youngster, the thought of reaching the big sleep, well…there wasn’t a thought. Death? No breath? There was no contemplation of the beginning or end – just heedless cruising along, fueled by curiosity and new experience. 

My father’s work as a minister made parishioner’s departures from their mortal coil, part, and parcel of his daily life. I, on the other hand, was oblivious. One Sunday Mrs. Morgan wasn't in church. I didn’t notice that her absence from worship services was permanent. Next!

I was not a big child, and in kindergarten, found myself pushed around by other kids. That is until Danny stepped in one day and planted one of his slightly larger hands on a classmate wanting my peanut butter and honey sandwich. The altercation that spared me occurred in the cloakroom where Miss Burns, a chronically unattractive, but a pleasant woman, had sent us for our napping blankets. Danny caught the boy, pushed him against the wall and let him know that bothering me, was bothering him. I never understood why he stepped, but introspection wouldn’t come for decades. All I knew was that Danny was the kindergarten cop who made me, and my sandwiches, safe.

One day mother told me that Danny had been hit by a car. She said he had been killed and gone to be with Jesus. He would not be coming back to school. She took me to the funeral to see him. I don’t remember a lot about that experience. It wasn’t traumatic. My friend Danny looked like he was sleeping in a small bed. In spite of my mother’s best intentions, not seeing Danny again just meant he had moved to Jesus’ house and my peanut butter and honey sandwiches might, once again, be at risk.

Through subsequent decades, I gained an understanding of what it meant for living creatures to die. We lost dogs, squirrels (briefly boxed tenants in our home), and relatives I didn’t know well.

The first realization of personal loss came with the death of Barry Merchant from a car crash in Fairmont, West Virginia. He was an older classmate that I admired. Coming home at a high rate of speed, one Friday night, his vehicle abruptly stopped at the base of an unyielding hardwood tree. He was gone and it hurt.

My paternal grandmother died in my eighteenth year. My father in my late thirties. Mother slipped away in my fifties and most painful for me – my younger sister in my sixty-fourth year…

I have discovered that as ‘time in service’ on planet earth continues, the topic of aging/loss has become much more prominent in conversation with my peers. Aches, pains, and "…did you hear about <fill in the blank>? He/she was a great person…,” emerge insidiously into personal exchanges.

I don't see this as the ‘…is what it is…' unavoidable nature of things. Instead, I see it as a clarion call. Not for what has passed nor lost, but for what is ahead. As conversations drift more and more toward the unexpected death of someone I know, they drive my thoughts toward the value proposition of what is left.

There are things that cannot be changed: the past and the future.

The past has already been recorded irrevocably. It's not that I do not mourn the loss of loved ones, it is merely that their image has become static, fixed in my memory banks. Even when I find them slipping into my consciousness, they come in broad brush strokes with softer edges….

The future has not yet occurred, and so there is little I can say. Life experience suggests that the minutes, hours and days ahead are unpredictable. While it is in our nature to plan for the future, better said, desire for certain outcomes, there is no way to predict anything about the 'going forward.' This, of course, is a protection. If we knew what was coming, there would be little to hope for, or excitement at, the unexpected.

While the future is unpredictable, meeting it is not a matter of just letting it come. Life is a dynamic experience. It is intended to be, pardon the cliché, '...embraced and lived...'

As the days go by, I still think very little about the ‘big sleep.' What has changed is the knowledge that it exists, accompanied by a deep curiosity about the transition and the last big adventure of my life.  It is my hope it will be seen as a celebration to those who know me.

In some regards, I can hardly wait. Next!

ted