Lately I've dwelt on the subject of mortality: seeking a neutral reflection, I find such musings must drift toward the personal. A nagging sense of death’s hidden omnipresence haunts me. I cannot avoid its touching my realm someday, but God has been merciful in keeping it relatively absent. Yet barring greater tragedy, my faithful (if stupid) dog, Sunny will die, forcing my children to witness death before they reach adulthood. Left unscathed in my youth, I fear I am ill-equipped to lead them through that crucible.
Death visited when I was too young or dumb to grasp the moment’s gravity. My great-grandparents survived beyond age ninety; I was lucky enough to meet them, but was under ten when they passed. My grandmother likewise saw ninety years, but died during my bout with collegiate narcissism. Their passing was neither unexpected nor especially sorrowful, except it ended the previous era. To exit this world in peace with a sound mind having lived nearly an entire century leaves little to mourn and much to celebrate.
Yet my focus lingers on mortality’s eventual certainty, for my loved ones and me. Tragedy will darken our doorway, and I sometimes wish I knew when. I entertain the delusion I can properly prepare if given a finite window. Meditation on the topic causes a wondering what I might change, armed with foreknowledge of my demise. I offer the following thoughts on three areas: family, career, and faith.
Before diving into this morbid choose-your-own adventure, let us explore the lie of eternal life. To clarify: as a Christian, I trust the Bible’s words about the world waiting for us beyond death. The fantasy is to believe life (and its silent premise, health) everlasting is possible without first meeting the grave.
A paradox appears straight away, pitting limitless desire against a soul-crushing lack of urgency. The universe holds countless places ripe for visiting, but with eons to enjoy them. Cultures and their wonders warrant more haste, but even they persist for centuries. Human events might lend an incentive to witness them, but life’s eternality raises the question of their importance. Why rejoice in watching the Cubs break a 100-year curse if I saw the first organized game in 1846 and will outlast the next century-long drought? What is unique about taking Omaha Beach in 1944 if I likewise crossed the Delaware in 1776 and the English Channel in 1066? All historic moments blur and fade as antiquity obscures them. Even colonizing a new planet loses its luster after enough repetition.
With no countdown clock spurring us to action, what sets the agenda? The short answer is whatever suits the current moment’s whims. Enjoyment becomes the direst need, but the law of diminishing returns provides a mighty obstacle; so pure novelty rules eternity. As novelty proves more elusive, a wanton craving emerges for more extreme pleasure: the highs must get higher. Pain becomes the darkest evil, because eternity in pain is not heaven, but hell; thus, we seek to destroy or avoid all its causes.
What about everybody else? If I alone lived on, it would be impossible to resist treating with contempt the whole of humanity. Attaching myself to the dying is only heartbreak for us both — why spend the hereafter bereaved? Worse, trying to forget loved ones by replacing them with others begs sorrow upon sorrow. Yet the worst result would be to judge my pleasure the sole significant end, worth any cost. Under such logic, I might justify evils beyond fathom.
However, if everyone persists, the problem changes. Victims of abuse would recall wrongs forever and may seek vengeance. Relations become fraught with risk, a minefield requiring extreme care. Quarrels could lead to endless bile, a frightful notion given humanity’s fickle nature. In that light, death sheds its mask of cruelty. Pain, strife, and evil point to common human frailty; their mortal limits are a blessing.
I think it a useful starting place to examine changes I would attempt with ten years lease on life. Expecting I will live "to old age" is a self-deceptive euphemism; the language is sufficiently vague to punt further into the future when the wrinkles grow too deep for comfort. The most painful realization that arises from thoughts of my dying in the next decade is that I would exit during my children’s most vulnerable ages. They would be aware enough that the ordeal would leave violent, permanent scars.
My first instinct on learning my expiry date would be to shower them with attention and direction, hoping to prepare us both for my sunset and their sunrise. If I am honest, I cannot keep such intensity throughout a decade, and the pressure might cause them to resent me. A pledge to bookend each day with hugs and kisses and always restrain my temper plays virtuous; but ten year’s length allows the daily to creep in and steal focus. Of highest importance would be to equip my wife for the kids’ difficult teenage years she would need to finish alone. Consistent, individual hours spent on their interests would be paramount, but also encumbered by conflicting needs.
Chief among competing concerns would be the want to leave them a financial cushion. I could ill afford to quit the labor force, and the daily routine of office and home would lend a needed sense of normalcy. My job sometimes appears of low value, but the thought of vouchsafing their future with my efforts would resolve such feelings. I would search for the most lucrative position in my field, with the caveat it remains stable. Dreams of changing careers or starting a family farm would vanish. My music and writing would become dusty afterthoughts. Every dollar earned and spent would mean a barter of valuable moments, and so need careful accounting.
I sense that knowing my death date would present extended chances and trickier roadblocks to faithfulness. A decade is enough runway to mature the difficult habits that prove elusive to incarnate. Conversely, those same things might ensnare me in idolatrous self-satisfaction should I rely on them to the neglect of grace; heaven would show itself a distant refuge attached to a lengthy tightrope. I struggle at toeing lines regardless of their length, thus I doubt my soul would rejoice in a decade’s advanced notice of my dirt nap.
What renovations are possible supposing the span were not ten years but twelve months? The broad contours of reality would be set in stone, making changes more nuanced and therefore somewhat harder to envision. My sons would mourn in their childish manner, and I expect their grief would linger; yet I would be a shadow in my daughter's memory once she reached adulthood. The immediate concern would be my wife’s lacking established means of supporting the family alone; a single year would make seismic shifting of my financial circumstances beyond reach.
Sunday I would consecrate to my family for instruction and enjoyment. Given 52 chances to impress upon my kids how beloved they are and the virtues I hope they gain, Sundays together would become my most precious legacy. My wife and I would discuss plans for a future I would never share and shed many sorrowful and hopeful tears. I could desire frequent meanderings along the wooded trails outside our home.
My job would remain of critical import though hope of advancement would be vain. Instead, the drive to continue would stem from urgent awareness that my efforts support more than my family's daily needs; they buy time, Lord willing, for my wife secure a permanent means of looking after the kids. My pride would struggle to swallow the lowered expectations of maintaining the status quo.
If I would meet God next year, I would arrange weekly meetings with my parish priest. I hunger for worth in God's eyes and often cling foolishly to hope in my imagined future deeds; my soul would recoil against my frustrated plans for redemption on my terms. But lifting those illusions might open a door to receive grace afresh, without the self-made expectation I must achieve 'significance' or 'meaning.' I could never understand such lofty concepts in God’s eternal framework anyway.
A year’s remaining lifetime renders many circumstances inflexible; a single day’s warning would leave me powerless to course correct. My outlook reduced to a couple dozen hours, all pressure to change dissipates. My terminal to-do list would include prayer, a protracted farewell, and if I could squeeze them in, final instructions.
The highest priority would be to gather my family. I would write personal keepsake letters to my kids; yet I fear as they grow they might consider the guidance and advice a sentimental act done for my sake. Harder still would be the goodbye with my wife; I dread leaving her unprepared for the mission she would undertake in solitude. Her anxiety and pain at an uncertain future would deepen my final hours’ sorrow.
On my mind’s bottom branches, the fruit of my career would rest untouched. My body of labor would stand on its own, imperfect but protecting my family against poverty in the near term. On the eve of judgement, my earthly vocation complete, my heart would overflow with thanks for the many surprising and often mixed blessings I have received.
A large part of my curtain call I would spend praying; but my prayers would be a mea culpa for my past sins and regrets. When approaching the darkest unknown it may be proper to face backwards, shielding ourselves from uncertainties beyond our capacity to imagine. I hope my eventual trip to the throne of Grace carries a better testimony to God than ‘I'm sorry’; but honesty prohibits my saying more if my ship sailed tomorrow.
Without a crystal ball, I cannot know if one, ten, or a hundred years remain. Yet writing this taught me this lesson: the worst choice is to delude myself that my mode of living is permanent. Again, the game changes if everyone shares eternity; but while it raises the fearful prospect of lasting strife, it also offers the reviving hope of a legacy of kindness, blooming into steadfast love. So maybe treating others as if they will live forever is helpful. While man is a fickle tyrant who tends toward burning anger, mitigated by a God perfect in justice he can rejoice in everlasting goodness.
There is wisdom in supposing my working days will end ten years hence; careful spending and shrewd business sense are worthy qualities. A decade allows room for change, enjoyment, and growth while setting a finite boundary to stop our sense of greed. Time limits remind us that gainful employment serves a passing function and we can neither keep its trappings nor allow it to define us.
My family commands the higher honor as they should. Despite my fickle feelings, it is not a burden to spend one day in seven giving special care to my children. My wife and I seldom discuss beyond the near future; that fact shows a serious gap in planning should the unthinkable occur. We also rarely walk alone together enjoying each another’s company. Strangely, it seems the best way to prepare my household for their lives is living mine assuming I will not long accompany them.
Finally, it troubles my soul that if I stood before the Lord tomorrow, my lone offering would be an apology. 'I'm sorry' shows I wasted the gift by lacking the humility to practice the truth that life is fleeting. I harbor no delusions about being worthy before God, but having received many gifts I wish my testimony to speak of blessings profited by and shared. Still, I know self-made significance is a false trail leading to pride and madness; even the simple act a cup of cold water given to one in need carries an eternal reward.
So to the maxim in all this spilled ink: pray like you will meet God tomorrow. Love like you can count the days. Work like it matters to people you cherish. Treat others like you will see them in eternity.