October 15, 2007
RIP
Awhile back my aunt had a stroke, was in a coma, on a respirator and had no evidence of brain activity. The family began talking about how to deal with her affairs and property. Among other things there was a 14 year-old mangy mutt that none of us could…or would adopt. With the guidance of the doctors, the decision was made to turn off my aunt’s respirator. Lo and behold, against all odds she began breathing on her own. She continued to improve and after many weeks of therapy she recovered enough to go home. PTL no one had yet put the dog to sleep! Lazarus died and was in the tomb for three days before Jesus brought him back to life. I feel sure the family had already begun the disbursement of his possessions. It makes me laugh to think about the resurrection celebration mixing with the urgency to replace all Lazarus’ possessions before he knew they were gone.
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Gail;
-----Your piece entitled RIP has set off a string of thought in my mind that I am not sure would have come together otherwise. I used to smoke Velvet, Prince Albert, Top, or Bugler hand rolled. It was a hard struggle to stop that habit because the scratching and tickling in the lungs called for numbing, which would be administered by a cigarette, which gave my hands an excuse to perform the art of rolling the perfect one. Things always link up in my mind this way. And so the tobacco was linked with the papers. Consequently, unlike those who would quit when they smoked the last cigarette from their current pack, I had to reach my last paper and last pinch of tobacco at the same time. (Which I don’t honestly think ever happened.) If I had a paper, it called for tobacco. If I had tobacco, it called for a paper.
-----Sometimes I try hard to bury the old man of me. But honestly, I do not dig the grave deep enough to hold the things of his, too. So he gets buried, and some of his stuff I keep in the house. For instance, I never really stopped smoking. Now I only smoke a pack and a half or so of factory rolled cigarettes a year. And I seem to be down to a couple six packs of beer a decade. But other of his stuff I keep in my pockets. When my girls do wrong I get so mad I yell. Too bad for me, and worse for them. And some of his stuff I keep in my mouth. I have struggled my whole lifetime with profanity, but it still flows too quickly. Not to mention many other of his things I’ve left scattered about. And I know they all call for him.
-----So I do go to the grave occasionally and repack the dirt a bit. If I wasn’t bright enough to dig a grave sufficiently deep to hold all his stuff, too, I am at least bright enough to understand what kind of trouble I would be in if he dug his way out and wanted his things back. I would like to think that all of his stuff can be buried, but I know it can’t. And the only way I can keep him in the grave is to not use that fact as an excuse to liberally enjoy his stuff, but rather, it is to use it as an excuse to freely be merciful towards others. For none of us have shown ourselves to be very good at grave digging.
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