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I’ve reached an age where I’m frequently hearing of an old friend boarding the carriage bound for eternity.
There was a time when hearing about a friend passing:
- kept me up at night
- racked me with anxiety
- sent a chill up my spine
The Grim Reaper was the thief who snatched my dad in his prime of life and came after me in mine.
Then on April 7, 2007 I learned he would soon be coming for my brother, Steve.
He called me in Chicago and told me he’d been diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer — a death sentence.
I shared the news with Marsha, then went on a long run.
She could see how I was affected by his news and urged me to go to Seattle and be with my family.
I did.
As it turned out, I would spend the better part of the next two years in Seattle, staying in the home of Steve and Leslie’s next door neighbor and a dear friend of mine, Millie Hokanson.
It was a time when life was turned upside down, when the older brother who’d spent his life trying to outrun death would be schooled by his younger brother on what happens when your running days are over.
Through it all I never forgot one thing — Steve knew something I didn’t:
He knew the approximate date of his death.
My brother had always kept his own conscience and his feelings to himself.
The one time he shared his heart with me was the day I arrived. He met me at the door where we embraced and cried our hearts out.
It would be the last time I would ever see him cry.
“Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, — Tears from the depth of some divine despair — Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, — In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, — And thinking of the days that are no more.” Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Steve was not at all anxious to board that carriage. He waged a mighty battle to delay the date of his departure.
And who could blame him? He had:
- too much to live for,
- too much to do,
- too many people counting on him.
His dear wife, Leslie, a boatload of wonderful friends, a thriving law practice, his Seattle Blues soccer team and his trio of fantastic sons, Conor, Kelly and Shane.
He worked to stay alive right up until the very moment — he couldn’t.
During one of my visits he asked me to help him clear brush on his acre of land in Purdy, Washington. For forty years it had been his place of refuge.
We didn’t talk while we worked. It wasn’t until we stopped for the day, unwrapped our tuna sandwiches, and dangled our feet in the stream that Steve broke the silence and spoke to me with unusual candor.
He took me on a two-hour, heartfelt carriage ride through the times of his life.
He poured out a flood of his most cherished memories, chapter after chapter filled with stories.
Then he looked over at me and summed up his reflection in one grand, eloquent statement:
“You know, Pat, I have lived a good life.”
There it was.
The purpose of life, summed up in one simple phrase. Bring goodness to life and you shall have a good life.
Indeed, Steve had been the author of his own goodness.
His life had been good.
The psychologist Erik Erikson describes a person’s final stage in life as either a time of integrity or despair.
It’s the time we look back over our lives and are challenged to see them as meaningful and well-lived, versus a series of regrets and missed opportunities.
On that summer day in Purdy I witnessed Steve looking back, well pleased with what he saw.
Steve boarded his carriage bound for eternity in the early morning hours of August 1, 2009.
He left us all with a great lesson.
Live a good life. Now.
Just a thought…
Pat
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