Teach us to realize the brevity of life, so that we may grow in wisdom. [Psalm 90:12 (NLT)]
Death never takes the wise man by surprise; He is always ready to go. [Jean de La Fontaine]
Several years ago, two friends joined the ranks of widowhood within a week of one another. Because her husband surrendered to cancer several months earlier by stopping all treatment, one woman was not surprised when she joined the club. The other woman, however, went to bed a wife and awoke the next morning to find herself a widow. Despite his looking the picture of health, her husband, having suffered a fatal stroke while she slept, lay dead on the kitchen floor.
Although Ira Byock is a palliative care physician and a leading advocate for improving end of life care, his book The Four Things That Matter Most is as much about living well as it is about dying. The four things referenced in the book’s title are four simple phrases: Please forgive me. I forgive you. Thank you. I love you. While we may think we’re simply restating what should be evident to those around us, we must never underestimate the power of those words.
We’d like to picture a peaceful ending with family gathered around our bedside and the opportunity to say and hear whatever needs to be said or heard, but that’s probably not the way our last act of life will be staged. Even though I knew my mother’s cancer would defeat her, when I walked out of her hospital room that afternoon, I never suspected that she’d be in a coffin when next I saw her! When I said farewell to my father after a holiday visit, I never expected that, while pheasant hunting in a cornfield, he’d die of a massive heart attack less than three weeks later. My father-in-law was airlifted to a trauma center and died there before any of us even knew he’d been in a car accident. Neither life nor death go according to plan!
In their last moments, did either of those husbands regret having left something unspoken? When their caskets were closed, did their family members weep because of words they’d left unsaid? Because they had warning, I’d like to think the first man and his family expressed their forgiveness, thanks, and love. As for the second husband—while gasping his last breath, did he wish he’d said “I love you!” before his wife went to bed? Do his children regret not apologizing for something or failing to express their love and appreciation for all he did? Does his wife wish she’d told him how much she loved him before going upstairs that night? Does she regret their previous day’s spat or wish she’d thanked him for his incredible patience?
Why should we wait until the curtain is closing before saying the important things? Any forgiveness to request or extend, any thanks to offer, and any words of love to share should not wait for the final act. We may not even know the play is closing, the people to whom we want to speak may not be present, or conversation may not be possible.
Please forgive me. I forgive you. Thank you. I love you. While it may be stating the obvious when we utter those words, being obvious doesn’t mean they don’t need to be said or heard. They’re all things that shouldn’t wait to be expressed until we or the people we love are at death’s door. If Lazarus or his sisters left anything unsaid the first time he died, I imagine they didn’t after his resurrection. Unlike Lazarus, however, we don’t get a second chance at dying and, unlike Martha and Mary, we don’t get a second opportunity to say farewell to our loved ones.
Please forgive me. I forgive you. Thank you. I love you. We don’t know when the curtain will close. Is there anyone to whom we should say those words before it does?
Everyone knows they’re going to die, but nobody believes it…If we did, we would do things differently. … Forgive yourself before you die, then forgive others. [Morrie Schwartz in “Tuesdays with Morrie” by Mitch Albom]
When I first started reading the psalms, I suspected David might have been bi-polar—his highs seemed so high and his lows so very low; now I understand that he was just being truthful. In his psalms, David unabashedly expressed his deepest feelings to God. Pouring out his soul, he openly shared his emotions—whether anger, disappointment, sorrow, regret, shame, joy, love, fear, doubt, or even his desire for vengeance upon his enemies. No matter how troubled he was, David never was afraid to speak from his heart. I’m not sure we are willing to be as vulnerable and straightforward in our prayers as was David.
As a teen and young adult, it was easy to be critical of my parents and their parenting. Vowing I’d never say or do some of the things they did, I was sure I’d never make any of their mistakes. Once I became a mother, however, I became far more forgiving and much less judgmental. Turns out, I made some of the same mistakes my parents did (and plenty more of my own).
In Psalm 23, the King James version translates the original Hebrew “gay tsalmaveth” as “valley of the shadow of death.” A more accurate translation, however, would be a dark valley or a valley of death-like darkness. While people often associate this psalm with death, it uses the metaphor of sheep and their shepherd and sheep have no concept of death. But, because of their near-sightedness and poor depth perception, they are reluctant to move into dark places. Nevertheless, whether referring to the unknown, danger, or even death, David’s words are ones of comfort and hope to all who read them—we are not alone as we travel through the dark valleys of life.
Most of us probably spent Saturday preparing for Easter. We may have done last minute grocery shopping, prepped for Easter dinner, purchased an Easter lily, decorated eggs, assembled Easter baskets, snacked on jelly beans, or hidden plastic eggs around the yard. The previous day’s service on Good Friday had been a somber one but we knew the following day’s worship would be one of joy and celebration. While we may have sung “Were you There When They Crucified My Lord?” on Friday, we knew that we’d be singing “Christ the Lord is Risen Today” on Sunday.
Unlike Lazarus, we haven’t had a four-day encounter with death. Our family didn’t wash us with warm water, anoint us with myrrh and aloe, wrap us in a shroud with herbs and spices, lay us in a tomb, and mourn our passing. Most of us haven’t even endured a months-long coma, flatlined, or been brought back to life with an AED. How does such an experience affect someone? Without a doubt, the man who emerged from the tomb differed from the man who died four days earlier. Did Lazarus return to life with the 1st century equivalent of a “bucket list” of things to accomplish, places to go, things to do, and adventures to have?
