Death. Obitus is Latin for "death." I know a lot about death.
I've had my hand in the creation of three -- four? -- NO! FIVE obituaries in my short life. The crafting of an obituary is no small feat. It is not to be taken lightly (at least in my mind). It is the last thing "sung" about the person who has died. It is so very important! It is so crucial! And yet, so many formal "obituaries" are lack-luster. They provide the facts -- the data -- the details -- but so seldomly do they really paint the portrait of the one who has died. That is, in my humble opinion, the purpose of an obituary ... a GOOD obituary: To paint a perfect, beautiful, poignant, honest portrait of the beloved who has died.
The basic definition of an "obituary" is a "biographical sketch" or a "record of death" of someone who has lived -- and, subsequently, died. Ugh. How limited is that!? And yet! that is how the majority of obituaries read. Believe me. I know. I used to be a chronic reader of the obituaries. Every now and then I would rejoice! A write-up would beautifully portray the value that one's life held in this world -- at least to the portrait-master of the obitus. Thank you! Thank you for letting us know how and why this soul died! Thank you for telling me about how they realized joy -- in the earth (gardening) or in their pets (give to the ASPCA) or in service to their church or the community. Thank you for letting me know that their untimely death was because of an accident, not a terrible illness -- or because of tragic sorrow. Thank you for letting me know that they were deeply loved by their children, their grandchildren and by their friends -- by their weekly bridge club! Thank you for drawing a picture of their life's work in a way that colored them with deep hues and depth, rather than presenting them as sterile -- unremarkable -- all business -- meaningless?
I suppose I might have ruffled a bunch of feathers there. I certainly do not intend to offend or hurt or knock anyone off balance ...
I have shared with a few close loved-ones my personal "litmus test." (Sorry. I know that's sort of lame, but it does have some meaning ... "a crucial and revealing test in which there is one decisive factor.") Of course I don't always live up to it! If I did, then I'd already be in Heaven, rather than trying to do my part in exhibiting God's Kingdom while I'm still trudging around here on earth. I have told my kids, my sisters, my close friends ... that if nothing else, I truly hope that what they remember about me is that "all she did was done in love." I don't know if I'll ever live up to that, but it is my goal -- my "litmus test." I seriously stop in my tracks in certain situations where I might react rather than respond ... and ask the question. Are you doing this/saying this/whaterver'ing this in love? Uh huh. Stops me in my tracks. Many times I simply fail to ask the question, so sometimes find myself apologizing. I think that apologizing is done in love. Redeemed. I hope! <sigh>
I don't get the newspaper anymore, so I've had to give up my habit of reading the obituaries. It has probably been a healthy hiatus, but I sort of miss it. Sometimes a simple web search results in an obituary link. As I was reading the brief summaries that showed up on a recent search result, I felt drawn to click on just such a link a few days ago. It was an obituary for a young woman; she was younger than David when she died. The few words I could read on the summary included the phrase "... was lovingly cared for by ..." I wanted to read about who that special person was who had cared for her throughout her illness. I was crestfallen when I read the actual text. She was "... lovingly cared for by the hospital staff!" Don't get me wrong. I thanked doctors and hospice care people, for sure, in David's obituary -- they were vital to us throughout his illness and the last few weeks of his life. ... Okay, so I continued reading. It went on to tell us about her education (impressive) and her job (she was a bunch of peoples' boss). Then her close and extended family members were named. They held a memorial service at some church (her church? dunno). I felt myself wanting to know more. What did she believe? Who loved her? What were her passions? Did she paint? Sing? Volunteer at a food kitchen? Did she garden? Why was her life special? There had to be more than she had numerous degrees and a fancy job.
I was trying to explain this to a friend on a walk the other day. We got off on a tangent, which was fine, because I wasn't sure I felt like exploring this any more deeply. It really made me feel sad -- disappointed. But we came full circle and my friend went on to say that in writing your own obituary, you can provide that "litmus test" for your life. She is right! I've often thought I should write my obituary way before I die because, honestly, how can my kids possibly know enough about me to be thorough!? (More importantly, I don't want them to struggle with the task. It is a really difficult thing to do.) But writing your pre-obitus obituary can serve as a syllabus, of sorts, outlining the narrative and outcome of your living. It really can help you to know what that plan looks like in order to better live it, right? You might as well ponder it (this includes prayer and learning and relationship and worship and service and fun) -- strive for it -- bring to fruition the masterpiece that is your life. What would I write?
One obit I read several years ago was about the life and death of a man in his 50's -- young -- like my father. I was reading along and when I read that he liked to play Bingo and enjoyed bear huntin', I sort of laughed and thought, "Wow, that's deep." But you know what? The writer of the record of that man's life and death KNEW him and cared enough about him to go ahead and tell the world that he freaking liked to play Bingo (probably had a lot of friends there and engaged in super fellowship!) and he enjoyed the sport of hunting bear -- again, probably with a father or son or brother or friend -- someone who knew him well enough and cared enough to tell us about that.
I don't mean to say that one's job is not important. It is -- particularly if it is one's true vocation -- something they loved -- and if they made a difference -- and had meaningful relationships through their work. But I want to know these things. I want to know about the spirit of the person -- their ruah (Hebrew for breath or spirit) -- that they had vita (life, Latin) before their obitus -- that they had spiritus (spirit or "soft" breathing, Latin). Soft breathing. I love that. Gentleness of Spirit. Holy.
But there is still the sorrow with which to deal ... of which my daughter so wisely has spoken: the joy, the gaudium that comes of sorrow, which brings about that gentleness -- that soft breathing. We who have lost much, have much to give -- much love -- much soft breathing. More on this soon ...
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