Memento mori
On Friday morning, I attended the quarterly awards ceremony at West Pine Elementary School. I had received notification that my son, Ashton, was to be recognized, so with Norah (4) and August (1), I rolled in with the double stroller and found a spot in the back right corner to observe. The ceremony began with everyone saying the pledge of allegiance. As I uttered the opening, “I pledge allegiance to the flag,” I was immediately transported to my days at Ellis School. Each morning the principal would lead the entire school in the recitation of the pledge over the loudspeakers found in every classroom. I’ve spoken it so many times that it would be a near impossibility to miss a word. Yet, as I stood shoulder to shoulder with other parents, I found myself experiencing the importance of the pledge in a deeper way, especially when we spoke the words, “one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty, and justice for all.”
At Noon, I attended the Mid-Century Modern Bach’s Lunch concert, beautifully performed by Lisa Gessner, Rev. Dr. Paul Murphy, and Dr. Larry Arnold. I was one of 200 gathered to hear the music so lovingly offered by three of the best musicians in Moore County. The audience, under the roof of God’s house, was enraptured by the jazz and hymn selections. As Lisa sang her original song, Rainbow, describing her experiences in working with preschool children, I found myself captured as she sang the words, “my favorite color is rainbow.”
The moments of awe I felt on Friday are experiences that only happen when I’m in community with a large group of people. There is something powerful about the gathering of humankind doing something in unison. These moments strike me when I’m at a ballpark and everyone sings, “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” or “God Bless America.” I get choked up watching fireworks in a big crowd on the 4th of July. The singing of a hymn in church, or praying The Lord’s Prayer with a group of fellow believers, have their own unique power.
Last week I was on vacation in Florida. Even when I’m away, I always have some type of project in the works. Last week’s project involved getting our family New Year’s card in the mail. It has been four years since we sent a Christmas card. My address book required a fair amount of updating and I found myself texting or e-mailing friends to verify addresses. Since my departure from social media, some of my texts were to friends I had not communicated with directly in years. Several of those texts turned into very meaningful phone calls, including one with my friend Michael, who I learned last week is fighting stage four renal cell carcinoma.
As I worked my way through the list, my daughter Ella noted how many times I had handwritten “deceased” next to the names of my friends and family members that had passed away in the last four years. The updates and status notes that I make on my paper list, then get transferred to my computer spreadsheet. Instead of deletion, the names of the dead are noted in red. Our Christmas card list is an outgrowth of our wedding invitation list. Amanda and I will celebrate our 20th wedding anniversary this June. Glancing through the list, there is a sobering amount of red.
My Christmas list has become a memento mori, a Latin phrase that means, remember you must die. A memento mori is not a morbid object to induce fear, instead, it is a transformative Stoic principle aimed at inspiring a life of purpose, authenticity, and gratitude. It’s a tool to encourage living a virtuous and present life by acknowledging the fleeting nature of existence.
The concept is core to the Christian tradition:
Psalm 90:12 – So teach us to count our days, that we may gain a wise heart.
Ecclesiastes 7:2 – It is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of feasting, for this is the end of everyone, and the living will lay it to heart.
James 4:14 – Yet you do not even know what tomorrow will bring. What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.
Genesis 3:19 – By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread until you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; you are dust, and to dust you shall return.
Those last words we will hear repeated on Ash Wednesday, which is just a little more than two weeks away.
When winter weather separates us for a moment, may we take these interruptions to remind ourselves to embrace those moments of awe and remember and cherish those times when we are in community with one another, physically present and together. Remember those moments when emotion can steal away our breath or sober us to tears because of our realization that we belong, and that we are loved children of God. Dwell in the communities of faith, friends, and family that define your humanness. Remember that it is all a gift. May we thank God for it all.