I have been surrounded by death lately. First, my uncle died a few weeks ago, then my good friend's sister died, then another friend took a mysterious leave of absence from everyone's life and we don't know if he's terminally ill, depressed, in rehab, all of the above or none of the above.
(And if he's reading this, I'd like to invite him out for noodles when he's feeling better. I'd also like to hit him aside the head with a Tupperware lid for making us worry and letting our imaginations run wild.)
Considering the lives and deaths of others makes me inevitably ponder my own. If I kicked it right now I'd be so mad. I haven't seen what I've wanted to see and haven't done what I've wanted to do yet.
At the end of our days, whenever they may be, it doesn't matter what our life wasn't. What matters is what our life was. Did we see a lot of the world? Did we have good friendships? Did we laugh a lot? Did we love?
It always ends with love. The ultimate test of a life well lived. Did we love enough? Did we spread the love? Were we generous with our time, possessions and talents?
I've done alright in the love department but I'd like to step it up a notch. I'd like to know what it feels like to love a man so deeply that I want to walk through life with him. I get confused when people say, "I knew I'd spend the rest of my life with him." I want to know what it feels like to love a child the way I see parents love theirs. I want to know what it feels like to have so much love emanating from me that it doesn't matter what I do with my time. I'm blissful and satisfied. But most importantly, I don't want God to be waiting for me at the Pearly Gates with a Tupperware lid in his hand ready to ding me on the head and say, "What were you waiting for girl? Why didn't you go out and get it?"