"If you can fill the unforgiving minute, With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it..."
Those who have lost a loved one will tell you that the greatest regret is in the things left undone. The Christmas before my mother died, her illness had progressed to the point where she was spending more time in bed than out of it. On that special day, however, she had perked up for the holiday and we enjoyed a good visit. When the evening came she was tired and ready for bed again, and I went to her room to tell her good night. As she had done on so many other occasions, she asked me, “Are you going to spend the night.” Mothers love to have the whole family, or as much of it as possible, under the same roof. I had a busy schedule, or so I thought at the time, so I told her I would be leaving that night. I remember that she closed her eyes for a moment in disappointment before telling me goodbye, but for the life of me I cannot remember now what was so important that I chose that instead of the chance to spend one more Christmas night with my mother. I did not get another opportunity.
We do not know when our “lasts” will occur, but occur they will, and for everyone and everything that we hold dear. You will look into your cherished one’s eyes for a last time. There will be a last trip back home, a last reunion of old friends, a last sunrise, a last sunset and a last supper. Some opportunities will end suddenly; an accident or an illness will take away someone we love. Some last chances will fade away, lost in time and circumstance. I may never see another sunset off the coast of Oregon while whales pass slowly by in the distance. We are not guaranteed another single day of existence, or even a single breath, nor do those whom we cherish live with any such promise.
It is too easy, I think, to say, “Live each day as if it were your last.” There is wisdom in that statement, but it is not enough. Clinging to the moments with an ever present awareness of death does not seem a good way to use the time we are given. Morbidity is bereft of creativity and passion. Living in future darkness one has a tendency to stumble over things in broad daylight, and to miss the journey while so intent on the destination. On the other hand, to live like a grasshopper in a June meadow is ecstatic – until November comes.
How then shall we live? It is this middle path that we must each find for ourselves, but there are some guideposts along the way. Ask someone who has been in combat; someone who has survived a catastrophic illness or a natural disaster; someone who has lost a loved one but has gone on to love again. Ask someone who walks in Faith. It is possible to do both – to cherish each step on the journey, and to be mindful that the journey leads inexorably into the Great Unknown.
Time flies when you are having fun, they say. Much has been written about that person who comes to the end of his life and regrets the swiftness with which life has rushed by. The implication is that this is inevitable for all of us, that we will come to the end of our road and despair that the journey has been so short. I disagree. If we rush through life intent on our destination, and then the next, then perhaps the journey will seem brief. If, on the other hand, we find a way to cherish each moment, hold it gently, and then release it to grasp the next one, then the journey will be rich with memories and life, no matter how brief, will be long enough.
