“A time to be born and a time to die”

One dear lady gasped in horror when I said,

In writing your memoir, teach your readers how to live,

but do more than that: Teach them how to die.

I was leading a memoir class and the lady apparently thought I meant we should teach readers how to commit suicide. No, no, no! That’s not what I meant!

I was thinking along these lines:

“There is a time for everything,

and a season for every activity under heaven:

a time to be born and a time to die. . . .”

(Ecclesiastes 3:1-2)

In retrospect I should have said:

Write stories that show readers how to live well and,

when their time comes, how to die well.

Most of us feel uncomfortable discussing dying and death. Diana Trautwein writes of the “sinking queasiness, this revelation and recognition that death is an unavoidable part of life. . . .”

In her blog post, Reflections of Mortality and Holy Week, Diana addresses the fact that “death happens everywhere. We are surrounded by it, entangled by it,” yet “we cover it up, tuck it away, move it aside.”

Yes, the experiences of death and dying remain elusive and mysterious and can be scary, especially for young people, so let’s explore the topic in our memoirs—for the benefit of both ourselves and our readers.

The following, by Max Lucado, will stir up new considerations for you:

“You, as all God’s children, live one final breath from your own funeral. Which, from God’s perspective, is nothing to grieve. He responds to these grave facts with this news: ‘The day you die is better than the day you were born’ (Ecclesiastes 7:1). 

“Now there is a twist. Heaven enjoys a maternity-ward reaction to funerals. Angels watch body burials the same way grandparents monitor delivery-room doors. ‘He’ll be coming through any minute!’ They can’t wait to see their new arrival. While we’re driving hearses and wearing black, they’re hanging pink and blue streamers and passing out cigars. . . .” (Max Lucado, “When Death Becomes Birth,” from Come Thirsty)

If you’re not afraid to die, write a vignette explaining why.

“ . . . Someday God will wipe away your tears. The same hands that stretched the heavens will touch your cheeks. The same hands that formed the mountains will caress your face. . . .” (Max Lucado, The Applause of Heaven)

At the end of your time on earth, what will it be like to stand before God face to face, one on one?

Paul wrote in 1 Corinthians 13:12, “Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.”

For years I’ve asked myself, “What will it be like, face to face with God, the Almighty, the Creator, knowing Him fully even as He knows me?”

I envision the scene: I am surrounded by His blinding-brilliant glory—and I am speechless.

I imagine I’ll fall on my face, sobbing in worship and wonder and gratitude.

What about you? What do you envision?

What stories can you write 

to help readers ponder life and death 

and God and heaven? 

What stories will show readers how to live well and, 

when their time on earth draws to an end, 

how to die well?

Before it’s too late!

Who can look into the future to know what will arise? 

In my July 27 post, I told you I was taking a break for family matters—but I didn’t anticipate being away for three weeks! 

Neither could I imagine what would happen to my heart.

My husband and I spent time with a parent nearing death. A few days ago, we said goodbye, celebrated his life, and comforted loved ones left behind.

Another precious relative, after enduring way too many tragedies in the past few months, ended up in the ER.

Three days ago, a special uncle died.

And we also continue to watch another dear one who has only days—or maybe hours—to live.

I’ve been experiencing some hiraeth moments, especially after my uncle’s death.

Do you remember my posts about hiraeth? Pronounced HEER-eyeth (roll the r), it’s a Welsh concept which, according to the University of Wales, can include “a mix of longing, yearning, nostalgia, wistfulness….”

It has to do with a strong attachment to a homelike place and a hankering to return to it. That’s what I’ve been experiencing—a longing to return to the halcyon years I spent with my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins.

Love, joy, kindness, and fun filled those times. And total acceptance. And safety. That’s why something in me longs to return to those people and those days.

Hiraeth:

It calls our names: we recognize the voice,

and it tells us that place is where we belong,

that place, where our roots go down deeper than our roots.

That is our home of homes.

But I digress. Anyway, now you know why I’ve been away from SM 101.

And little did I know how relevant that July 27 post would be—the last post before my break. Do you remember it? I encouraged you to write the important stuff before it’s too late.

I asked:

What wisdom can you impart to your kids and grandkids before you die?

What balance? What perspective?

What reassurance?

What can you demystify for them?

And I suggested you include those accounts in your memoir. (Click here to read Write the important stuff before it’s too late.)

With these recent reminders of life’s fragility, I’m even more convinced we need to be intentional about writing our stories—for the benefit of those who come after us. Not because you and I are so great, but because God is so great.   

“The greatness of old age is that it has wisdom, which is . . . important for young people. A young person who is about to face life has thousands of problems, but an old man can demystify many of those problems.” (Father Aldo Trento, quoted in Why Grandparents Matter)

My experience with loved ones these three weeks reminds me:

Life is short.

You don’t know how much longer you’ll have good enough health—

or even life—

to put your important stories into writing.

Don’t put it off!

Related link: Hiraeth: You’ve probably experienced it

Your hiraeth person: Love and longing after someone has gone away

Hiraeth. You might not recognize the word but you’ve most likely experienced it.

It’s a Welsh word pronounced HEER-eyeth (roll the r).

A couple of years ago we looked at hiraeth as it pertains to a place. Today we’ll consider hiraeth as it pertains to a person.

The English language doesn’t have an apt word to describe hiraeth so we describe it in a round-about way. Think person as you read the following.

Hiraeth can include “a mix of longing, yearning, nostalgia, wistfulness….” (University of Wales)

“The Portuguese have a word, ‘suadade,’ which is the only true cognate for hiraeth,” writes Pamela Petro.  “[One meaning is] ‘the love that stays’ after someone…has gone away.”

Hiraeth has to do with a strong attachment you once had—but time, distance, death, or circumstance caused a separation and you’re keenly aware of that loss, and you yearn to reestablish that former intimacy.

A hiraeth person is a soul mate, a kindred spirit. A hiraeth companionship is something sacred God orchestrated. For reasons you can't possibly understand, His hand engraved that person's name onto your heart.

He used your hiraeth person to nurture your soul and spirit, to mysteriously shape you and define you and anchor you.

You and your hireath person touched a place inside that others couldn’t or wouldn’t. You shared secrets no one else could fathom. You were safe with each other. You handled each other with care. You never gave up on one another.

But keep in mind that hiraeth “…incorporates an aspect of impossibility: the pining for a home, a person, [or] a figure….” (Smith College)

Why impossibility? Perhaps because despite your fierce attachment to each other, the hand of God pointed you in different directions.

And because of that, the impossible distance between the two of you causes an ache,

a longing,

a restlessness,

a keening. 

You feel a pull, an insistent vacuum that demands to be filled.

But perhaps it will never be filled—certainly not if your hiraeth person has died.

And for those still alive?  Well, sometimes God moves in mysterious ways.

In 1993, God moved two families away from a lovely town on Washington’s Olympic Peninsula: He sent one of my dearest friends, Gayle, and her husband to Papua New Guinea, and He sent my husband and me to East Africa. Yes, Gayle and I could keep in touch with email, but that would never really satisfy. When we said goodbye, I believed we’d never see each other again. For years I grieved the loss of Gayle’s close friendship.

However—

“Sometimes you think a story is completed and all wrapped up,” writes Lawrence Kushner. “But then, decades later, something happens and you realize it’s not all done yet, it’s still in process.” (Invisible Lines of Connection: Sacred Stories of the Ordinary)

I never could have imagined that 15 years later, both Gayle’s family and ours would move to Missouri—Missouri, of all places!—within a week of each other! For seven years we lived only two hours apart and had many opportunities to get together. What a gift!

Yes, sometimes, on rare occasions, God reunites two hiraeth friends.

But for the most part, I don’t think we can count on it. Finding one another again won’t likely happen.

In that case, you are left with hiraeth, 

that yearning that buzzes and tingles, 

it whispers to you, it nags at you—

and sometimes even shouts at you. 

It insists that you must always hope 

and wait 

for one more conversation, 

one more day together.

What are you to do if your separation is apparently permanent or your hiraeth person has died? Accept the impossible hiraeth-ness of your situation. Believe that God has a good plan for you. 

Live each day confident that 

you and your special person have 

"invisible lines of connection,"

an enduring fellowship 

known to only the two of you. 

It’s real, maybe more real and true 

than anything you’ve ever know to be real and true. 

Years later, maybe decades later, you still call each other’s names in the silence, and you recognize each other’s voices, and you call back.

You still sing in perfect harmony, yet only the two of you hear the tune and know the words.

Despite the distance between you, you’re inseparable: Your togetherness remains strong and sure.

Who is your hiraeth person?

Maybe a grandparent, parent, or sibling;

your uncle, your aunt, or your child;

a teacher, church youth group leader, or high school sweetheart;

a childhood friend, classmate, or college roommate;

a Boy Scout leader, teammate, or coach;

a colleague, mentor, or professor;

a surfing buddy, nanny, or neighbor;

a spouse, a first love, or the one who got away.

Hiraeth is something bigger than the two of you.

Despite the distance, time, death, or circumstance

that separates you from your hiraeth person,

you are never far from each other’s thoughts.

You’re still in each other’s dreams.

You are still each other’s heartbeats,

the blood that pulses through your veins,

the oxygen you breathe.

You still hold each other close,

and there you are complete,

you are at home.

"It well may be,

That we will never meet again,

In this lifetime.

So let me say before we part,

So much of me,

Is made of what I learned from you.

You'll be with me,

Like a handprint on my heart.

And now whatever way our stories end,

I know you have re-written mine,

By being my friend....

Because I knew you,

I have been changed for good.

"For Good," Stephen Schwartz

Tuesday Tidbit – “We will all die one day”

Here’s your 15 seconds of inspiration for today,

your Tuesday Tidbit:

“We will all die one day.

That is one of the few things we can be sure of.

But will we die well? That is less certain.

Dying well means …

making our lives fruitful for those we leave behind.

The big question, therefore, is …

‘How can I prepare myself for my death

so that

my life can continue to bear fruit

in the generations that will follow me?’”

(Henri Nouwen, Bread for the Journey)

One way to "bear fruit in the generations that will follow" is to do what Jesus said, “Go back to your family and tell them everything God has done for you. 

Get your God-and-you stories into writing for your family!

My mother and “Things unseen and eternal”

My sweet little mother died a few days ago and my family and I are grieving her loss. (See pictures of her at A pause.)

Professionally, Mom was extraordinarily accomplished, but everyone knew the most important things were her family, God, and her church.

I am deeply thankful to her for teaching us how to know, serve, and love God and others.

Mom showed us how to live well, how to grow old with dignity and grace and, in the end, how to die well—to die in peace.

King David, too, lived well and died well, in peace. In the Bible he is commended for carrying out his duties with integrity of heart and with skillful hands, and then, when David had accomplished God’s purpose in his own generation, he died (Psalm 78:70-72, Acts 13:36). 

When David breathed his last breath, what a sense of peace he must have held, knowing he had accomplished God’s unique purposes for him. What a sense of satisfaction (the right kind)!

I am confident my little mother, too, lived with integrity of heart and with skillful hands—that she accomplished God’s purposes for her generation, and died in peace. Hers was a life well-lived.

Dying. Death. What are they?

Here’s what Henry Van Dyke wrote:

A Parable of Immortality

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side

spreads her white sails to the morning breeze

and starts for the blue ocean.

She is an object of beauty and strength, and I stand and watch

until at last she hangs like a speck of white cloud

just where the sun and sky come down to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says,

‘There she goes!’

Gone where? Gone from my sight—that is all.

She is just as large in mast and hull and spar

as she was when she left my side

and just as able to bear her load of living freight

to the places of destination.

Her diminished size is in me, not her.

And just at the moment when someone at my side says,

‘There she goes!’

there are other eyes watching her coming

and other voices ready to take up the glad shout,

‘Here she comes!’ 

(Henry Van Dyke)

I know Mom heard, loud and clear, “Welcome! Well done, good and faithful servant!” (Matthew 25:21).

I can only begin to imagine what she’s experiencing now.

She is seeing God face to face.

Eternal life is no longer something she only partially grasps.

Mysteries suddenly make sense.

Heavenly, unseen things are perfectly clear.

All the pieces have fallen into place.

Everything that puzzled her now makes sense.

She’s now involved in a “…contemplation of things unseen and eternal” (A Diary of Private Prayer, John Baillie).

How about you?

What are your thoughts about dying?

What do you think heaven will be like?

At the end of your time on earth,

what will it be like to stand before God

face to face, one on one?

What stories can you write for your kids, grandkids, and great-grands?

Dying and death and God and heaven seem elusive and mystifying and scary, especially for young people, so writing about them can benefit both you and your readers. Your stories can quiet fears. They can help others live with courage as they face the unknown.

Your stories can make readers think. Examine. Refine their stances. Take a fresh look. Maybe change the way they live, especially when their time on earth draws to an end.

“There is a time for everything,

and a season for every activity under heaven:

a time to be born and a time to die…”

(Ecclesiastes 3:1-2).

In writing your memoir, teach your readers how to live,

but do more than that: Teach them about that “time to die.”

God can use your stories to bless your readers. Really!

Stories are among God’s most powerful tools.

They can fortify timid hearts,

help people make important decisions

and find their way,

and inspire readers to find God’s purposes for their lives.

Your stories can change lives forever.

Related posts:

A time to be born and a tie to die

A pause

“A time to be born and a time to die”

One dear lady gasped in horror when I said,

In writing your stories, teach your readers how to live,

but do more than that: Teach them how to die.

I was teaching a memoir class at the New Tribes Missions’ training center and apparently she thought I meant we should teach our readers how to commit suicide. No, no, no! That’s not what I meant!

I was thinking more along the lines of: “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven: a time to be born and a time to die…” (Ecclesiastes 3:1-2).

Maybe I should have said:

Write stories that show readers how to live well and,

when their time comes, how to die well.

Most of us feel uncomfortable discussing dying and death. Diana Trautwein writes of the “sinking queasiness, this revelation and recognition that death is an unavoidable part of life.…” 

In her blog post, Reflections on Mortality and Holy Week, Diana addresses the fact that “death happens everywhere. We are surrounded by it, entangled by it,” yet “we cover it up, tuck it away, move it aside.” 

Yes, the experience of dying and death remains elusive and mysterious and can be scary for all of us, especially for young people, so perhaps we should explore those topics in our memoirs—for the benefit of both ourselves and our readers.

This will stir up some thoughts:

“You, as all God’s children, live one final breath from your own funeral. Which, from God’s perspective, is nothing to grieve. He responds to these grave facts with this great news: ‘The day you die is better than the day you are born’ (Ecclesiastes 7:1). Now there is a twist. Heaven enjoys a maternity-ward reaction to funerals. Angels watch body burials the same way grandparents monitor delivery-room doors. ‘He’ll be coming through any minute!’ They can’t wait to see the new arrival. While we’re driving hearses and wearing black, they’re hanging pink and blue streamers and passing out cigars….” (“When Death Becomes Birth,” from Come Thirsty by Max Lucado)

If you’re not afraid to die, write a vignette explaining why.

What do you think heaven will be like?

“…Someday God will wipe away your tears. The same hands that stretched the heavens will touch your cheeks. The same hands that formed the mountains will caress your face. The same hands that curled in agony as the Roman spike cut through will someday cup your face and brush away your tears. Forever.” (Max Lucado, The Applause of Heaven; also see Revelation 21)

At the end of your time on earth, what will it be like to stand before God face to face, one on one?

The lyrics of I Can Only Imagine (MercyMe) ponder that question.

“I can only imagine what my eyes will see when Your face is before me.…

Surrounded by Your glory, what will my heart feel…?

Will I dance for You…?

Will I stand in Your presence, or to my knees will I fall?

Will I sing hallelujah?

Will I be able to speak at all?

I can only imagine.…”

Paul wrote in 1 Corinthians 13:12, “Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.”

For years I’ve asked myself, “What will it be like, face to face with God, the Almighty, the Creator, knowing Him fully even as He knows me?”

I envision the scene: I am surrounded by His blinding-brilliant glory, and I am speechless.

I imagine I’ll fall on my face, sobbing in worship and wonder and gratitude.

What about you? What do you envision?

What stories can you write to help your readers ponder life and death and God and heaven? What stories will show readers how to live well and, when their time on earth draws to an end, how to die well?