Another Ash Wednesday has come and gone. On this day, many Christians attend church, where a priest or a pastor marks their foreheads with a cross made of ashes, saying, “Repent, and believe in the Gospels,” or more traditionally, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”
The latter injunction, which derives from Genesis 3:19, is the formula used in my church, and it never fails to deliver a jab to the psyche. These words always make much more of an impression than the press of the priest’s thumb against my skull and the ashes left there.
Leaving church on Ash Wednesday along with hundreds of other parishioners, I wondered how many of them were contemplating that somber “to dust you shall return.” My thoughts later drifted to some of the poets and writers I’ve read who shared their own hopes and fears about death and dying, like Emily Dickinson in “I heard a Fly buzz – when I died” with its final spooky and even terrifying last lines, or John Keats’ lament, “When I have Fears That I May Cease to Be,” or the noble death of Alessandro at the end of Mark Helprin’s, “A Soldier of the Great War.”
Mostly, however, I thought, as I have so often thought, of the deaths of my mother and my wife, both of whom died surrounded by the prayers and tears of those who most loved them. Though my mother wasn’t Catholic, and my wife was a recent convert, both died in that state of grace which the Catholic Church calls a good death, meaning that they were friends and followers of Christ until their final breath.
Today we rarely hear about a good death, sometimes called a happy death, even in church. In fact, in our society, we hear much more frequently about euthanasia, from the Greek words for a good or easy death. A good death for many people means dying in comfort, without pain and preferably oblivious to the fact that we’re dying at all.
But there is a third meaning for a good death, one attainable no matter what religious beliefs we profess. In his book, “With Love and Prayers: A Headmaster Speaks to the Next Generation,” F. Washington Jarvis obliquely addressed this subject in a talk he delivered to his high schoolers at Boston’s Roxbury Latin School. His talk to the students included this passage:
Every great school in every age has always regarded the awareness of death as the foundation of education. A realistic perception of human life begins with the awareness of the stark reality that life is short and ends in death.
The celebrated headmaster of Eton College, Cyril Alington, was once approached by an aggressive mother. He did not suffer fools gladly.
‘Are you preparing Henry for a political career?’ she asked Alington.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Well, for a professional career?’
‘No,’ he replied.
‘For a business career, then?’
‘No,’ he repeated.
‘Well, in a word, Dr. Alington, what are you here at Eton preparing Henry for?’
‘In a word, madam? Death.’
Roxbury Latin is only incidentally preparing you for college. Its principal mission is to prepare you for life. And the starting point of that preparation is the reality that life is short and ends in death.
There’s a lot going on in this passage, but for me, one lesson is fundamental: If you want a good death, it’s necessary to live a good life. From what I have learned by reading and observing others, to live a good life means practicing love and gratitude.
No matter how difficult our circumstances, every day offers us occasions to show love toward another person, even a stranger. If we want to be remembered with love, as are my mother and my wife, then it’s love we must give.
And no matter how battered and beaten we may feel, every day offers us opportunities to be thankful, if only because we’re alive and breathing, and experiencing the inexplicable wonder and mystery of life on planet earth.
In his article, “The Upside of a Terminal Illness,” Thomas Lifson writes with a light touch of living with the certainty that he has a date with death. He ends by remarking:
Now, don’t let me give you the impression that I prefer this illness. It has closed a lot of doors for me and limits me in many ways. I’d much rather be healthy. But I can’t—or at least prefer not to—ignore the upsides. In fact, I dwell on the upsides with the certainty that the secret to happiness is gratitude. And you don’t have to be stricken with a terminal illness for that insight to help you.
Love and gratitude make for a good life and a good death.
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The republication of this article is made possible by The Fred & Rheta Skelton Center for Cultural Renewal.
Flickr-Sam Caplat, CC BY 2.0
