Tom Sawyer's Funeral

As a little girl I remember reading the stories of Tom Sawyer and his adventures, but the one that stood out most in my mind to this day is the day Tom died and went to his own funeral! 

I don't recall all the details, but I know that he and his friends were up to their usual mischief and were somehow assumed drowned. They arrived back home just in time to sneak into the church and hear their own eulogies delivered by a sorrowing congregation. They were amazed to be missed and so fondly remembered, three boys who only a day earlier were considered the naughtiest in town. Of course, as soon as they were discovered, they were re-granted the title! 

The chapter ends "Tom got more cuffs and kisses that day - according to Aunt Polly's varying moods - than he had earned before in a year; and he hardly knew which expressed the most gratefulness to God and affection for himself."  

I had my own kind of Tom Sawyer experience when I was in my earliest days of theological school on my way to becoming a minister. As a passenger in a car that went off the road, I broke my neck at C4-C5 (that's death or quadriplegic territory) and ended up disabled, pain-ridden and living in a Rehab Centre far from home for months. I lost my job, my year at school and a whole lot more. I still feel the effects of  “the accident" every day of my life, but like many who live with chronic conditions, have learned to manage them to the best of my ability. 

Yet although I didn't know it at the time, I have come to regard my time at the Rehab Centre, living with my fellow human beings who were struggling with every imaginable physical and mental challenge, as one of the richest experiences of my life. 

I believe this because it gave me some very early-in-life insight into what happens when a young, healthy body has to face the infirmities, limitations, disabilities and aches and pains so often experienced by us we age. My roommates were people who struggled to take a deep breath of air. My lunchmates were learning to use prosthetic limbs, or mastering the art of wheelchair wheelies so they could mount city curbs. Those with brain injuries were learning to walk or speak again. Many of us struggled daily with often excruciating pain. Others' lives were sadly ending from debilitating diseases. 

And slowly, sometimes - not always - we got better, or at least we adapted and were able to live better.

But what it really made me think about was how I had lived my life up until then. How often do we do the simplest of acts; breathe, walk or eat - without really thinking about how lucky we are to be able to do those basic things? Every day we get out of bed, put our two feet on the floor, take a shower, get dressed, eat our breakfast and go out the door to work or school without a thought. Yet every one of these precious abilities is a gift. 

My time in the Rehab Centre has always reminded me of Tom Sawyer's funeral. Like him, I got a glimpse of how things might have turned out very differently and yet still got to "come back to life." I was granted an incredible second chance and for many months and years, my simple daily life became a prayer of gratitude to the healing that somehow miraculously happened (and is still happening) to my body. I climbed stairs to the mantra "My legs work, my legs work!" I took a deep breath of air and breathed in my appreciation for healthy lungs. Even the daily pain I feel is a reminder that I CAN feel pain - or any sensation at all below my chest. 

But in some ways, the greatest gift for me was that I understand in my bones (literally) that this good gift of a body is mortal and breakable and my good health is really only on temporary loan. It's made me appreciate what I can do and asked me to re-commit to taking good care of myself. It's also helped me to prepare for time when my body won't always be able to do what I want in the way that I want. 

Who do I want to be then? How will I live richly in a body that has been diminished or disabled the way I learned to do (briefly) when I was so young? How will I continue to add to the store of beauty, joy and kindness when my world becomes my bed or even just my spirit in a faltering body?

It seems to me that the true spiritual task of ageing is to make do with less while we learn to appreciate it more. I remember a wonderful parishioner of mine (who I loved dearly) and visited as her life was coming to a close. Confined first to her apartment and then to her bed, the last time I saw her she was no longer able to eat or drink and barely able to speak. But she had one geranium on her balcony that she loved. "Isn't my flower beautiful?" she said. I looked and it was, but it couldn't hold a candle to the light in her eyes. 

Once in a workshop, we were asked to do a curious exercise - to write our own "dream" obituary! Some serious faces as well as lots of laughter ensued as we all read them aloud to each other at the end. Then the leader said "Now, what do you need to do between now and then to make those all come true?"

How do we hold gratitude for what we've been given in perfect balance with the knowledge that it is fleeting? How do we cultivate both appreciation and humility at the same time? And how can we live today so we make our dream obituary come true and like what we hear at our own funeral? 

As always, the poets have it. Mary Oliver says in her poem "Blackwater Woods:"

"To live in this world

you must be able

to do three things:

to love what is mortal;

to hold it

against your bones knowing

your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it go,

to let it go."