I’m 27 and healthy by the grace of God, but as sure as my heart beats, I will die one day.
I’d like to think it’ll be in my 90’s, like two of my great-grandmothers, or nearing 90 like my godmother. If that’s the case, I have about 60 years left or so. That’s a long time, but maybe not. Maybe it’ll keep speeding up as I go, and it could feel like a blink, or a vapor, like the Bible says. Maybe I’ll get to meet great-grandchildren, if my children and their children have kids earlier in life–that is, earlier in life than it’s looking like for me.
Call it morbid or realistic, but sometimes I think about the end of my lifetime, and my legacy. I think about what I would be remembered by, and if I’d be remembered for long. I squint to think back a few generations, and I draw a blank past my grandparents, really only remembering the people I got to meet. Will my legacy be like that? Will I only touch the lives I meet or will it go further? Will a great great great grandchild somehow access these very words or will this WordPress perish like my good old Xanga account?
I have no idea. A part of me wants to print and publish everything. All my thoughts, all my ideas, all my stupid stupid jokes. A part of me wants to etch my name on the proverbial rock of this earth, to be kept somehow past my lifetime. And then the rest of me shrugs and says “oh well” and accepts the fate that maybe I won’t be remembered past the lives I touch, and that’s okay. Would I care when I’m in heaven? Probably not, honestly. Will my words hold enough importance to be remembered? Maybe. Some I hope will.
The awareness of my mortality increased, funny enough, when my old laptop died. Everything I had on that laptop that I hadn’t saved on an outside source or published was gone. Poof. Private words that I’d neatly arranged, which marked momentous times of my life… are gone. Poetry vanished. Some pictures are gone. Ideas I’d expressed and forgotten will have to come back around to me, otherwise they’re gonna remain on the ethereal shelf of yet-to-be. It felt like a part of my brain had died.
And if my real brain had died, instead of its external rectangular extension, all the ideas in my brain would have gone with me. All the strategies, plans, hopes, dreams, and good intentions would be buried. Even my memories and thoughts of love would be left to linger in the air, unspoken. It sickens me, because I so desperately want to make a difference in the world, and I know that the things I’m passionate about are unique. This consideration made me cry, and get to my knees in prayer. I had to realign my heart with its purpose. I asked God for the tenacity necessary to live my life to the fullest, and to empower others to carry out their dreams with confidence.
I don’t have time to hold back or put things off. If it’s important, let me do it. If it’s worth telling, I might scream it. If it’s worth keeping, I hope to publish it. I don’t want to die with words unsaid, unready because I was unwilling to roar as loudly as I could. It’s so easy to become apathetic, to take for granted this time here. Where I work, people are fighting for their lives… and I must ask for what? For what are they fighting so hard to survive? For time with their loved ones? Memories they will make? Conversations to be had? Milestones, people, love? Yep. Those things. The very things that people fight for life to do, let me do them. There’s not much point to this painful existence, this constant resistance against disorder, pain and hatred, if not for Love. If we’re not bringing heaven to earth, not worshiping God and putting Him in His rightful place in our hearts, if we don’t take the time to stand in full awe of Him… we’re missing it.
Yesterday, I witnessed the beginning of a small protest on the Marietta Downtown Square. They were screaming “Black Lives Matter” and they’re right. I wish we’d take the time to scream with our actions that our lives matter, period. I wish we’d stand up for a lifestyle of courage, transparency, and love, with a protester’s passion. We are more likely to work jobs we hate, to worry about money, and to put off the things we really want to do. It’s a passive kind of death, really, when we forget what is most important.
If you were fighting for your life, what would be your reasons? Put those things first.
You’ll find me writing more about what warms my heart, immortalizing my treasures by sharing them. I fully believe that love is like a fire, that it warms and consumes. It demands to be seen and felt. I’m thankful that the perfect love of my Savior would be the highlight of my life, and that His story of redemption in my broken places will be told. He will be glorified in me, both now in life, and someday in death.