What Really Matters

One of the definitions of life simply is "unpredictable". You don't live by sticking to your plans and never changing them; you live by taking what comes and making the most of it, because, in the end, plans are only intentions, never rules, of how your life will go. One little thing can disrupt the plans for your whole life, and you're left in the dust wondering what to do next. You live by acting, now and in every moment, making the most of it.

I've never had a day where absolutely everything goes as I planned it. I wonder if anyone has. And yet we still make plans, even though our best laid plans are always changed in some way or another.

The quietest moments are shattered by harsh reminders of the frailty of life. I was reawakened to that truth this past week.

I always dreaded the day I'd have to write about death on my blog: death as a personal and recent experience for me. To my memory I've only ever done it once. That time was years ago, when I wrote about one of Wes's friends who died of cancer.

This past Saturday I went to help out at Dad's store. (Yes, I spent most of my time folding T-shirts, as usual.) Right in the middle of our ordinary day, Dad got a call that changed everything.

When he went to tell me, he started crying so hard he couldn't speak, and that's when my heart dropped.

Daddies aren't supposed to cry. My dad never cries like that unless something really, really bad has happened. In a second, my mind ran through a dozen possibilities, and with each one I became more and more frightened.

Then Dad told me that my cousin had died in a car accident the night before.

Here's my second point: we tend to take life for granted, but we also take for granted those who are closest to us, those we've had the longest: family.

Yes, I didn't know what to say as Dad briefly explained the situation. But, ashamed as I am to admit it, it wasn't the news itself that sobered me and caught my breath in my throat. It wasn't entirely the death of one so close to me that shocked me.

The first thing that struck me was my dad's pain. The second was that I didn't share that pain. Yes, I cried, and I cried hard. But I cried first for him, and then for myself. I tried to fathom the fact that a man of 20 and his 15-year-old friend had both died, and not even through the fault of anyone. All that happened was my cousin swerved to miss an animal, over-corrected, and hit a tree. It was the reminder of life's unpredictability scared me.

We all want to think we'll live past 60, but it doesn't always happen. People die of all ages, from all causes. We can't choose the time or the reason. That was the fact I was awakened to.

Eventually, it all sunk in, and I cried for a cousin I really didn't know. I've been crying over the loss of my cousin because just now I'm learning what an amazing person he was, and I never realized it. I have people closer to me than him that I take for granted and, in a way, neglect. We get so used to the presence of family that we forget to value who they are to us.

I don't know if I should feel so guilty over not really being able to mourn the loss of my cousin; not the sort of mourning that comes from missing him. But I do feel guilty. Maybe my guilt is the result of being reminded to cherish the time we have and the people with whom we spend it, and the fact that I do neither half as much as I ought to.

I've been debating for a few days about what to say in my next blog post. I feel like every sermon I've heard recently has been a call to live a life with purpose, to live with my eyes wide opened so I don't miss a heartbeat or a smile on a love one's face. Yet I keep going back to my old deeply rutted trail of habit and memorized motions. Sad that it takes death to shake me out of my trance and reevaluate. I pray I don't waste or forget the things it's made me realize.