Years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, and seconds… As human beings, we’re always marking things on the calendar or glancing at the clock. Time is limited, and it is precious.
While flipping through a newspaper, have you ever found yourself stopping to peruse the obituary page? I have.
It’s strange, but after a peek at the grainy picture of the departed and a quick look at his or her name, the first bit of information my eyes search for is the person’s age at the time of death. My brain processes the information in a flash. I feel something—or nothing—based on the lifespan of the deceased. The closer they are to my age, the greater the twinge I feel in the area surrounding my heart.
What is it that draws us to the records of the recently deceased? The morbid attraction brings us no joy, and the knowledge that some stranger is survived by a wife, six grown children and their spouses, seventeen grandchildren, three brothers, a sister, etcetera, doesn’t enrich our lives in any way, shape or form.
My theory? Reading the obits is a bit like attending a funeral. It puts us in touch with our own mortality and raises the question: What am I going to do with the rest of MY life. How can I make it count for something good? Something great.
Years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, and seconds…
It is limited, and it is precious.
I, for one, want to strive to make the most of it.
(This month marks twenty-three years since my mother passed away. Each anniversary gives me pause. A time to reflect, measure my existance, and set goals to honor her by making my life count.)