When I Die

A word of warning that this story will take a few rabbit trails, but we will arrive at a destination in the end.

Today was my turn to present the staff devotional. I usually find it easy to locate a pre-written devotional from a favorite writer that easily relates to my life. Today was different. I did not prepare ahead of time. I mulled it over in my head all the way home yesterday and all the way to work this morning. I had three different things rolling around in my noggin – a favorite hymn, a story I saw on television years ago that I have never forgotten, and memories of my dad and his best friend – both men being heroes in their own way. Suddenly, I had a story that came together.

I walked in the conference room with three plastic grocery bags of bills and papers that need to be sorted. I have them because I am searching for a specific document to help me with a home equity loan I am working on. I told the staff I was afraid my life might be summed up by the contents of these bags if I died tomorrow  – disorganized, some documents crumpled, some bills torn, just a mess in general. I asked, “Is this what I will be remembered for?” I wondered out loud what will people remember about me when I die. Have I ordered my life to live my United Methodist vow of serving with my prayers, my presence, my gifts, my service and my witness?

I told them about all the people I have lost, like Frank and my father. I wondered why do we not know someone is a hero until they pass away? I didn’t have a clue my dad was a hero in our community until he died. I was baffled by a row of police officers standing at attention in the back of the church at his funeral. I didn’t have an answer as to why they were there until my thirty year class reunion years later. I didn’t know what a hero Frank was until I sat beside his graveside and heard his story. A Veteran of Foreign Wars soldier read an official document from the U.S. Army telling how Frank single handedly made it possible for the tanks to get up the mountain to liberate a French village during heavy shelling. He was knocked down by the concussions of the bomb blasts three times. Each time he got back up and continued to cut away the snow from the edge of the road so the tanks would not go over the ledge. They told how he continued the trek with his ears, nose and mouth bleeding from the force of the shock waves shattering the air. The twenty one gun salute that followed those words nearly ripped my heart out. I didn’t know my uncle David was a hero until he handed me some typed sheets of paper and asked me to write his memoire.  As a front-line medic in Viet Nam, the things he lived through and witnessed were not spoken of until he was nearly killed in a robbery decades after he returned home from the war. The doctors required him to bring all the memories out as part of his therapy. If that incident had not happened I would not have known about his life in Viet Nam until we gathered at his funeral some day in the future.

What will they know of me when I die? What will they have to say? I joke about having a five word eulogy. I tell everyone I want someone to stand up and say “Dang, that woman was funny” and sit down. And we probably won’t be able to have my memorial service in church because DANG will not be the operative word.

I have a program I saw on TV about 15 years ago that I simply cannot forget. It was about a blond, blue eyed cheerleader who signed up to be an organ donor at the age of 18. She had to have parental permission, so they had a family meeting and they elected to support her wishes - all with the thought that the unthinkable would never happen. It did. Graduation week. The parents were devastated. When approached by the authorities who had their daughter's driver’s license with the organ donor stamp on it, they hesitated a moment, then reluctantly agreed to the harvesting of their beautiful daughter’s organs. Now I have to interject that the family was white in a predominantly white town. They were not prepared for what they would learn about life one year later.

The TV program told in some detail about how organ transplants work, some of the risk factors, the possibility of rejection and a host of other medical items that make the success a virtual miracle. What the viewing audience didn’t know was that another entirely different miracle was about to unfold. Apparently, donors and/or the family of the donor in this case, are given the opportunity to meet the recipients after the transplant has been deemed a success. This family said yes to the request. Some of the recipients who benefited from the death of this white, blonde, blue-eyed cheerleader wanted to say thank you. As they filed into the room, the girl’s parents learned something very valuable. We are all made by such a master craftsman that our parts are interchangeable. A black man received a kidney. A black lady received a lung. A white person received the other kidney and someone from a Hispanic heritage received her liver. The last person to enter the room was another black female. The doctor looked at the father, held out his stethoscope and asked, “Would you like to hear your daughter’s heart beat?” In stunned silence, he took the scope, put it to the woman’s chest and listened. His next move was to wrap his arms around her to hold her close and sob. According to the story, they have remained in touch over the years.

What am I going to ‘give’ to this world that might impact someone’s life?  Do I need to work on this? I then realized that I don’t want to be a hero, but I had to think about what it is that I do want.

I wore a necklace today. It is made of real bronze and amethysts. I actually watched the craftsman as it was being molded. I watch as the hands of the master bent, twisted, glued and painted the piece. I remembered the parts of a young lady that gave the hope of life to people so unlike her on the outside, but so utterly matched on the inside….all because the master who created us did so with such perfection.

So now I have the words to a hymn coming to mind that lend themselves to fit my devotional. Since I have decided I don’t want to be some hero folks will sing about when I leave this earth, I want them to know that I have given my best. The words to the first verse of “Give of Your Best to the Master” read: Give of your best to the Master. Give of the strength of your youth; Throw your soul’s fresh, glowing ardor into the battle for truth. Jesus has set the example; dauntless was he, young and brave. Give him your loyal devotion. Give him the best that you have.

So, I am hoping I am giving my best by serving as a church musician. My vow of my prayers, my presence, my gifts and my service all come into play on Sundays as I sit on an organ bench. But what about my witness? I told my boss early on that I am probably the least devout of his whole staff. I am human. I am earthy. I am not a Biblical scholar, nor do I want to sit around a camp fire and sing Kum Ba Yah and hold hands. So what will my witness be when I leave earth? Will I have influenced anyone with my beliefs? And the words to another song came to me. The last words are so hauntingly beautiful and poignant that I cannot sing this song without an ache in my throat.

I reached for the hymnal to look up “O Sacred Head Now Wounded.”

It is an ancient tune written by Hans L. Hassler in 1601. The Latin words were translated to English by Paul Gerhadt in 1656. J. S. Bach took that tune and wrote harmony lines for it in 1729. So this ancient tune has been part of church worship for a long time. While it is sadly lyrical, it is not the ancient tune that calls to my heart. It is the last ten words of the third verse.

Instead of having my humorous five word eulogy of “Damn, that woman was funny,” I want someone to read the words of that verse, “What language shall I borrow to thank thee, dearest friend, for this thy dying sorrow, thy pity without end? O make me thine forever, and should I fainting be, Lord, let me never, never outlive my love to thee,” close the book and say, “She Didn’t.”