“To hold aloof from death is to cheat oneself of the profoundest insight into one’s own personal reality.”
Josef Pieper, Death and Immortality
At issue for me is my avoidance behavior. Though in my mind I am convinced that I should think about my death, I really haven’t done it much at all.
One might ask: “what exactly do you mean by ‘think about my death,’ and just what should it accomplish?”
Thinking about my death first of all means truly reckoning with it as the real, and possibly proximate, conclusion of my life on this earth. Sure, any reasonable person assents in the abstract to the truth that he could die at any time. But it seems to me that really reckoning with it is another matter.
This reckoning is not a morbid expectation of dying soon; and it certainly does not mean withdrawing oneself from an intense daily commitment to living life to the full. But it does involve coming to grips with the fact that my life here—in all of its wonderful and surprising aspects—always has the character of being a not-yet, and an on-the-way.
Somehow it is only those who realize the incompleteness and the partiality of life here—which includes that every aspect of life takes its meaning from a bigger picture often remote from our vision—who truly find the fullness, the wholeness this life can have.
This life of mine can and should be molding me, and those around me, into who we are. And this molding will include in it—perhaps in a surprising way—the time and the manner of my death, and the death of my loved ones.
I think I have let myself off the hook from reckoning with my death by telling myself, even subconsciously, that it is not the time yet for such reckoning. Or even, I think I’ve feared that doing such reckoning now would be to tempt fate.
I am convinced that in this I have been wrong. An inordinate fear has been at work. It is one thing to have a strong desire to live for a goodly length of time. It is another thing to hold back from reckoning with death because of a fear of it.
It seems to me that I owe it to my wife and children, and all my loved ones, to pattern for them a confidence regarding my own death–a confidence born in part from a daily reckoning. In the event of my death—at whatever point in time it comes—the confidence that I have shown now will be a bulwark for them, then.
And even more, this confidence that grows from a proper reckoning now, will transform our day to day life together, in the present.
Josef Pieper (1904-1997) was a German philosopher in the tradition of St. Thomas Aquinas. Many of his works have been translated into English and are still in print, including Leisure the Basis of Culture, Happiness and Contemplation, A Theory of Festivity, and The Four Cardinal Virtues, to name a few.
Photo: When we buried my father, September 2013.
Husband, father, and professor of Philosophy. LifeCraft springs from one conviction: there is an ancient wisdom about how to live the good life in our homes, with our families; and it is worth our time to hearken to it. Let’s rediscover it together. Learn more.
I’ve worked in the fire and rescue field since 1991 (27 years?!?!). I have seen death in almost every way possible, to the point where I was almost afraid to leave my house. It paralyzed me and caused so much fear. In my job, we prepare for worst case scenarios. So in absolutely everything I did, I could imagine the worst cast scenario. It took quite a toll on me mentally and physically.
But at the same time I was seeing every possible way to die, I was seeing people survive accidents that I would have thought impossible to survive. We’d talk about it later and we always came up with the same answer… there number wasn’t called today.
I’ve studied animals, mostly horses for some time now. I watch them and how they handle death. If death was coming to them personally, they had a sense of calmness that surrounded them. I believe it’s a gift from God. If death came to a friend or family member, they grieved, then they got back to living.
I had a horse named Penny. She was one of the sweetest souls I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. But her time came. She had mentally checked out, but her body was fighting me to go off in private to lay down to die. The Vet came out to sedate her to help ease her transition. I will never forget that day as long as I live. Her 4 pasture mates gathered at the fence to support her in her transition. When her spirit left, her best friend, Max, who I still have, let out a holler that made the hair stand up on our arms and we all got chills down our back. It was life changing for me. They are so in tune, and so aware. Later that day, Max refused to eat. His head hung low and I could feel his pain in my own body. I tried to sleep that night, but I couldn’t. I could only think of Max and his suffering. I went out in the middle of the night and found him in the field, not eating, not with the herd, head hung low. I spent the rest of the night with him, comforting him. I scratched and rubbed his favorite places, hugged him, and we cried together. The next morning, he was 100% back to his normal self. He needed the time to grieve, then it was back to living.
When we live in the past, we get depressed. When we live in the future, we have anxiety. Neither is beneficial in any way, shape or form. Prepare for the future, but live for today. Believe me, if your number is up, it’s up! There will be nothing you can do.
Ps…. the kittens are doing amazing!! They are definitely loving life!
Nicole, These things that you have related about the animals are truly remarkable. That really gives us something to think about.
Your experience in fire and rescue also gives you a very unique vantage point. I appreciate your sharing these things. The story of Penny will stay with me.
Very glad to hear that the kittens are doing well. I hope they’re catching mice for you too…
On the subject of spiritual preparedness for our death, I might offer, perhaps especially for married people, using our Lord’s words as a means of reflection/meditation: Greater love than this no man hath, that a man lay down his life for his friends. My husband, who died from a rare cancer at a young age, took these words to heart and understood himself as doing just that. His was an extraordinarily holy death in imitation of our Lord, consciously giving his life that I might have a consecrated religious life and live it to the fullest, and even that the chapel we’d begun building on our property might also have greater life in accord with our Lord’s designs. In the short time my husband lived following his diagnosis, he set up legal documents protecting both me and the chapel, ensuring our future with trust funds, etc. Once these were in order, he urged me to see the bishop and made me promise never, ever to lose my faith. And so now, even thirteen years later, my life continues with one foot and heaven and one on earth as it were, knowing that what he and I began together will not be completed until my own death occurs, which I long for in happy anticipation regardless of how it occurs. But having said all this, I hope I haven’t missed the point: My husband was my greatest friend and I his. There is still nothing more beautiful, even in memories of our sorrowful separation, than to recall how my best friend willingly gave his life for me and how our relationship continues even now to fulfill a purpose quite beyond us.
Sr. Kathryn, What a remarkable story. What a profound gift you and your husband have shared in together. The death of a spouse certainly has the possibility of great trauma, as well as of great redemption. You have indeed given us something to reflect upon, and I thank you.