My funeral looms on the near horizon.
I’m 71. The United States male life expectancy from birth is 76. If I move to Minnesota I’d live another 2 ½ years (life expectancy 78.67), but who wants to live 2 ½ years with a blue nose and blue ears.
If I move to Mississippi I’d be like Schrodinger’s cat, half-dead (life expectancy 71.8).
Here’s a little comfort: For someone who has lived 71 years the average age of death is 84. And some more hope: My mother is a robust, clear-minded 94. But who knows? I might die on my way to a colonoscopy today. Or they may find cancer and give me six months to live.
We never know when death comes knocking. But we can know how we lived our life.
At my funeral I suppose most will say, “He was a good man.” Or, “He was a good Christian.”
How do they know? Going to church regularly no more makes me a Christian than sitting in the garage makes me a car. Reading the Bible regularly? Praying daily? That fails to signify I’m a Christian. Christianity is a heart thing. Only God knows my heart. Only God knows your heart.
What do they mean by a good man? That I didn’t rape and pillage?
What do they mean by a good man? That I didn’t rape and pillage?
When all is said and done the only thing that matters is how we lived our lives for God. Our legacy depends on how many people we helped along the way.
It doesn’t depend on where we went to school or what kind of grades we made. It doesn’t depend on how much money we had or what kind of car we drove or what kind of house we lived in. It doesn’t depend on how many Facebook friends we had. Our résumés would be but ciphers.
Wouldn’t it be nice if all of us could be remembered for bringing love and laughter, hope and help to all we met?