When I'm Gone

Funerals in the South are quite different from funerals in the Midwest. Funerals in the South are more like reunions of family and friends ... reunions that can quite literally last for days. I don't ever remember going to a one-hour visitation for someone who had passed away followed immediately by the funeral for said person until I moved to Kansas. Back home, visitations start in the early afternoon and often last until the wee hours, moving from the funeral home (or funeral "parlor" as a lot of Southerners still call it) to a restaurant or someone's house. And more often than not, there are multiple visitation times over several days, a long funeral and then a graveside service as well. I'm telling you, funerals in the South are a really, really, really big deal.

Yesterday, I went to a visitation for a gal that I used to work with many years ago. I'm sorry to say that I had lost touch with her over the last few years and didn't even know that she was sick. Another former co-worker called to tell me of Stef's passing and ask if I would go with her to the visitation. The second we walked through the door of the room where Stef's family and friends had gathered, I knew that this visitation was different than most I've been to, both here and back home. As we made our way to the front of the room to pay our respects, we were approached by a young man in his early 20s, smiling broadly and extending his hand.

"Hi," he said, "my name is Kevin, and Stef was my mom. She wanted you to have this and to know that she lived life to the fullest." My eyes brimmed with tears as I took the folded piece of paper he handed to me, watching as he made his way to each person who entered the room. We spoke to Stef's husband for a few moments, and I was taken aback by his calm and accepting manner concerning Stef's passing. I wondered that there didn't seem to be a hint or trace of anger or bitterness in him ... even though Stef had only been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer three months earlier. As I gave him a hug and turned to leave, he touched my arm and said, "Be sure you read that," he said, pointing to the paper in my hand. "She wanted you to know that she lived life to the fullest."

I said goodbye to my friend and climbed into my car, still holding the folded piece of paper in my hand. Starting my car, I thought, "I'll look at that later; it's probably just some poem or something." But before I put my car in reverse, I found myself unable to keep from opening the paper and reading the contents. Tears fell onto my lap as Stef's words ... her own words in her own handwriting ... leapt off the page and made their way straight into my heart. "When you're gone, will it matter?" Her handwritten words were followed by a printed note from her husband Paul that read, "Stef wrote this note for you. Each note is different, and each note is handwritten by her. She wanted you to know that she lived life to the fullest, and that our God is ever faithful. Blessings upon you, Paul, Stef and Kevin."

My friend called me later last night to tell me what her note said ... "Be unforgettable." She had spoken with some other people who attended the visitation and received their own notes. As she told me what some of those notes said, I realized that there was a definite theme in Stef's encouraging lines ... live a life that counts for something, a life that is lived to the fullest, a life that is true and real and pure ... a life that matters and makes a difference. And all day, I haven't been able to get her words on the note I received out of my head; in fact, I've carried the folded piece of paper in my pocket all day.

The notes were passed out randomly, and because they were folded, Stef's son didn't know what each one said ... he simply handed them out as people came into the room. And yet, all day today, I've felt as though I was meant to get the specific note that I did ... and all day today, I've wondered about Stef's question. "When you're gone, will it matter?" The more I've pondered on her words, the more I've questioned them ... what did she mean when she said "it"? Will it matter that my house was clean or my yard was mowed? Will it matter the kind of car I drove or the name brand of my clothes? Will it matter what my job was or how much money I earned? Will it matter that I loved others? Will it matter that I listened when someone needed to talk? Will it matter that I served with a heart that sought nothing in return? Will it matter that I was an example to everyone I met of the power of God's saving grace, of the life-changing gift of His forgiveness, of the way His love can soften even the greatest sinner's soul?

My prayer is that I live each day in a way that matters ... that I never take one second for granted ... that when I'm gone, what mattered to me will be what matters to my Lord.

"When you're gone, will it matter?