Perspective

This past week I went to a funeral. It was for a father-in-law of someone I work with. It was the first funeral I've been to that I had a connection with (though it was slight) since my mom's passing (See entry on December 25, 2006.)

It was great service as funerals go. There were lots of folks there to pay their last respects and to support the family. But the point in the service that really struck me was at the end.

The pipe organ play very stately and they wheeled the casket out of the sanctuary. It was followed by the pole bearers and then the family. From my seat in the back row I saw the look on their faces.

Sad, lost, unsure . . . not wanting to be on display during their time of grief.

I was then transported to another moment. To that time I followed my mom out of the sanctuary in front of over 300 friends and family after a moving funeral celebration. My dad, my brother and I worked hard for this moment. Finding flowers, picking out a casket, calling relatives and friends, collecting pictures, make a video, planning other aspects of the service. But in that moment it was over. The momentum of the events prior culminated to this moment. A momentum that couldn't be stopped, pondered, cherished. A short time later they would place my mom's body in the ground on a dark rainy day . . . where all I was left with were the memories.

The thing is . . . the journey didn't start when mom took her last breath. Mom was sick for about 3 years before she passed. There were meds, trips to the hospital, good news, bad news, tears, holy moments. There the late nights and early mornings. Feeding tubes, crushing tablets, measuring morphine, slow walks to the bathroom, last words, pain, sweat, tears, hugs, "I love you's", "I'm proud of you's", more tears, more last words, waiting, waiting, waiting . . .

So the moment of walking out of the church following my mom was very poignant . . . it will continue to stick with me . . . will still bring the tears.

The ride is moving and there is no way to stop it. The clock still ticks . . . we continue moving into the future.

The idea of a airplane ride came to mind as I watched our friend and her family follow their loved one out to the waiting processional of flagged-marked cars.

When you are in mid-flight, when you are tens of thousands of feet in the air at cruising altitude and even if you are going hundreds of miles per hour . . . the trip goes by fairly slowly. Hills, lakes, other landscape features, clouds . . . they all go by at a crawl. And, if you are excited for your destination, that slowness makes the trip seem like it will never end.

But then you come closer to the ground. As you approach the runway you start to realize how fast you are going for real. The houses, trees, cars, highways all seem to grow right before your eyes. The landscape flies by the window at break-neck speeds.

In everyday life we often focus on the not yet. The if only, the better future. We can't grow up fast enough, get out of school soon enough, get to vacation, get to drive, get out of the house, etc.

But then . . .

That final walk down the isle changes our perspective. We painfully realize that our momentum from our striving days is carrying us farther into the future. We wake up to the things we are leaving behind . . . things that are oh too easily forgotten. We get the idea of how fast we are really going . . . and how short our time is here on this earth. There are no brakes, no pause buttons, no way to get off the plane.

So how can we keep that perspective in the normal days, in the striving days. I guess I am grateful for the times that remind me to cherish what I have while I have it. But how do I remember to do that . . . well, always. I guess I have a life-time to figure that out . . . however long that will be.

For What It's Worth

Take it . . .