The topic of legacy comes up a lot for me. May not always be external, but it’s something that I’ve always grappled with internally.
“What is my legacy?”
It’s a refrain that comes back, time and again. Sometimes, echoing quietly. A gentle hum in the background. Other days, it cascades down, wave after wave of questions.
Even from a young age, I’ve thought about my eulogy. I think I was 8 or 9 when I first thought about death. It came as a dream. A spectator at my own funeral. A silent witness.
Loved ones gathered round in a circle. Solemn quiet. Weeping. Although I can’t remember what was said, I remember the feeling of, “What they say about me is important — I wish that I could change that.”
And as the years have rolled on, I’ve thought about the passing of loved ones. My mom and dad. What would I say? How would I mourn? Would I cry? Would I regret not doing things or saying things? There would inevitably be a feeling of uneasiness, a sense of not having done enough, or wishing to have done more.
In reading “Tuesday’s with Morrie” at 14 or 15, the funeral took on a new life (pardon the pun). In it, author Mitch Albom reflects on his professor, Morrie Schwartz’s journey with ALS. The ups and downs, and ultimately the life lessons learned from Morrie’s fight with the degenerative disease. In one particular chapter, Morrie invites his friends and family to come give him a living eulogy. Knowing time is short, and not wanting to left anything unsaid, he invites his friends to come and celebrate him, his life and their shared love. It was a powerful recontextualizing of death and love. The humility to acknowledge that death is inevitable and embrace one’s vulnerability. And in so doing, giving those he loves and who love him a rare gift. To say the things that are often left unspoken. To allow himself to be fully and powerfully loved by those who deeply care for him, but who may feel restricted by social code or superstition.
Often we hold on to things because of shame or guilt. We withhold love because it’s “embarrassing” or “there will be more time for it”. But life is fragile. And moreover, it is unpredictable. There are no guarantees in this life. Morrie’s life is a testimony and example to the power of love. A lesson in humility. A willingness to set aside one’s pride — instead, embracing love, no matter how “embarrassing”.
This living eulogy also taught me about legacy. That everyone has a story to tell. And those that are left behind will be the ones to tell it. It’s like the expression, “A man dies twice. Once when his life is over, and again when there is no one to remember it.”
That’s true. But, what a thing to allow yourself that luxury to be loved when it can be shared. So, yes, I would like that. Why not have as much love in your life? It’s not hurting anyone.
Then the question becomes, “OK, so what would I like those who love me to say?” — What are the stories they will tell me about us? — What are the stories they will share after I am gone?
And that’s where legacy comes into play. This is the story I wish to tell. It is a story written in the ink of action and word. Each sentence carefully etched in every moment through the outpouring, or withholding, of love expressed in the choices we make.
Do we choose to withhold our love, for fear of making things “too sappy”? Do we embrace that hubris that comes with the mentality of “I can tell him tomorrow? There will always be time for that.”
So if death is guaranteed, why pretend like it isn’t? Like we can fend it off like some lowly pest. Some minor inconvenience. We can’t. It comes, and it takes. We have no say. So, instead of fighting death, why not fight to make every moment count.
Tell your story. With every word, deed, action. Every thought.
And the story I choose is love.
No one person is perfect. We all make mistakes. We have our flaws. But we have to strive for better. To grow, one day at a time, being better than the last. And so, I choose love over pride. In hopes that the seeds that I sow will one day flower. That in the fields of life that I tend, that love will spring up. A crop of beautiful and sweet stories of joy and laughter, of life shared, will bloom and blossom. And some will fall on hardened soil, and some will fall on fertile ground. But you won’t know which is which until you plant your love there.
So, we love our neighbors as ourselves. Giving them the love, dignity, and respect that we would want for ourselves. To live generously and empathetically. To see them for who they are, who they can be, and who they wish to be. Acknowledging their flaws, and hoping that they can become someone greater, and willingly come alongside them to help them fulfill that potential.
I’d like people to say that life was better with me in it.
It’s a simple goal. A simple goal makes for simple choices. Life is complex as it is. Nuanced and winding. Nooks and crannies, little corners and alleyways. And evil looms large. It hides in shadows and in daylight. In the seedy streets and in the boardrooms & courthouses. You never know when or where it can rear its’ head.
So if I want others’ lives to be better with me in it, then let me fill my life with love. So that when anyone takes a piece of me with them, they take love.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. — 1 Corinthians 13:4–8
So my life must be filled with patience and kindness. It must be absent of hubris. It must treat others with dignity. It must be generous. It must be just. It must hope. And it must be resilient.
That is my legacy. And in many ways, I’ve reached a point where I am proud of the actions I have taken. The words I have chosen. The thoughts that I choose to think, and the love that I choose to give.
And slowly but surely, I see a crop of beautiful stories begin to grow. Not everywhere I have tilled, but in many of the lives that I have touched. It reminds me to keep going. To continue planting. And the hope is that they’ll continue grow — taller and more beautiful. That they’ll spill and cascade their own love into the lives of others. As Corinthians points out, love always hopes. So, I will continue to hope.
But beyond hope, I continue to love.
Love ain’t a thing. Love is a verb.
