If that sounds a little too familiar to you, take a few minutes to listen to Chris Carrillo's reflections on this great American tradition. It's the message he delivered to the folks at Care-age of Brookfield this past Sunday, and it's a doozy of a wake-up call:
For way too many of us, Thanksgiving is no longer a day set aside to give thanks to our Creator for all His blessings. Instead, it has become a distraction, a family-, food- and football-filled way to forget all about Him. If that sounds a little too familiar to you, take a few minutes to listen to Chris Carrillo's reflections on this great American tradition. It's the message he delivered to the folks at Care-age of Brookfield this past Sunday, and it's a doozy of a wake-up call: If you're reading this via email, please click on the headline above to be taken to the audio file. Then, if you can't get enough of our preacher's messages, visit our Messages from Chris Carrillo page.
0 Comments
"I will never be an old man. To me, old age is always 15 years older than I am."
-- Francis Bacon English philosopher, statesman, scientist, jurist, orator, and author Francis Bacon was only 65 when he died in 1626. So we'll never know if he would have been singing the same tune in his 70s, 80s or 90s. But many of us sharing his philosophy will have the chance to find out. The average life expectancy in the U.S. is just a shade under 79 years right now. If we live that long, will we insist that old age begins at 93? Most of my nursing-home friends already consider themselves old. Though they're almost all widows or widowers, and miss their late spouses terribly, I don't know that many of them regret their age. Most seem to be at peace with it, and ready to move on to their heavenly eternities; the only part they're dreading is the actual act of dying. It's an attitude that rubs off on you if you spend much time with them. Which is another great reason for visiting elderly nursing-home residents just as often as you can. As inevitable as aging is, who doesn't want to be able to greet yet another birthday with peace and even joy? Two years ago, I received a Christmas gift that may be the most brilliant yet--a gift that was made possible by a particularly loving and thoughtful relative of my dear friend Wilma.
Here’s the scoop--only the names have been changed. A recently retired resident of the American southwest, Felicity is an absolute artist when it comes to hand-crafting greeting cards of all kinds, from birthday and Christmas cards to “Thinking of You” notes. And she keeps her elderly Aunt Wilma well stocked with a lovely array of these cards, complete with matching envelopes. In fact, she sends Wilma a large box of handmade cards each year around Thanksgiving, for Christmas greetings as well as general correspondence well into the new year. But Felicity encloses more than cards and envelopes in her Thanksgiving box. She also includes seasonless handmade gift bags, each containing festive tissue paper, each adorned with colorful decorations and an elaborate “Thank You,” and each bearing a tiny envelope and notecard for her aunt to personalize. This, in fact, was the brilliant present Wilma gave me--one of these pretty gift bags with a warm handwritten note and a selection of gorgeous handmade cards. The point being, of course, that Felicity not only fuels her aunt’s letter-writing activities at Christmas and throughout the year, but also enables Wilma to share these unique cards with her friends whenever the occasion warrants. It’s far from the only way that Felicity shows her love to her favorite aunt. But it certainly is one of the most practical and memorable. It’s also one of the most highly coveted, not only by Wilma, but also by all her friends who are fortunate enough to receive one of these special gifts! After decades of hanging out with nursing-home residents and their families, I've come to the conclusion that the second nicest thing we can do for our loved ones is to preplan our funerals.
I have to admit that, as an accomplished expert in denying reality, I did not support my own mother in this effort almost two decades ago. She was perfectly fine. She was not going anywhere. She couldn't possibly die; I needed her. How dare she even mention the word funeral? SHUT UP! I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT! I WON'T TALK ABOUT IT! She insisted that I would one day thank her, insisted too that I join her for a chat with the local funeral director who was making the rounds at her nursing home. I finally agreed, wanting to make sure he didn't pull a fast one on her. So one autumn afternoon, the three of us sat at a little round table in what was then called the South Day Room. They chatted happily as they pored over catalogs of caskets together; I remained bitterly silent and watchful throughout the whole ordeal and, when they were through, made a mad dash for home and a good long cry. HOW COULD SHE HAVE PUT ME THROUGH THAT HORRIFIC HOUR? HOW COULD SHE BE SO HATEFUL? As it turned out, she was as right about this as she had been about everything else we'd ever disagreed on. When the time came -- when she actually did the unthinkable and died on me -- I didn't have to make a single decision about her funeral beyond agreeing on the date and time. She had taken care of everything. What a gift it was, to be free to grieve, free to launch my inquiry into the possibility that she still existed somewhere out there. In the end, preplanning her funeral turned out to be the second kindest thing my mom ever did for me. But she also did something even more wonderful for me, something of eternal proportions. And that was telling me again and again, throughout our lives together, where I would find her once she departed this world. That, in fact, is the kindest thing any of us can do for our loved ones: To conduct the research, to determine once and for all where we will be spending eternity, and to let them know exactly how to find us. It's probably best to tell them while we're still alive and kicking, so we can answer all their questions about our final destination, such as how they themselves can get there. But it never hurts to leave them a note. My mother did both, and I am eternally grateful -- to her, for making the effort, and to our Creator, for giving me the kind of mom I couldn't bear to lose for all eternity. |
Kitty
|