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Published: Sep 16, 2005 01:40 PM
Sat - May 1, 2004
Because I Could Not Stop For Death
The value in a life is not
its length but its character.
It's
not every day that you find a name you recognize on the obituary page or learn
that someone you know was killed by a drunk driver while bicycling with his
girlfriend. But that's what happened to me this
week.
He was only 31 years old.
When newspapers teem with images of flag-draped coffins and Al Qaeda swears that it loves the afterlife more than this one, it seems like an indulgence to mourn a more private loss. But Alan was a good man who died too young. He will be missed deeply.
Perhaps, I'm getting old. I remember days—were they so long ago?—when my time seemed infinite and my possibilities endless, a time when I presumed that all my relationships would last a lifetime and that a lifetime would last the length forecast by actuarial tables.
Now, I live in an era of uncertainty. My parents' health is sketchy, my country's future filled with doubt. I no longer believe I can accomplish everything I want in the time allotted to me. Alan's death made me realize, more than ever, that we live on borrowed time, enjoying moments withdrawn from the bank of life—but without a statement of account to show the balance left to us.
So how are you spending your precious hours on earth?
Alan spent his with integrity. He gave time to charity, volunteered as a swimming coach for the local master's team, and always had a ready smile for old friends and for prospective new ones. He was quiet and shy but remained warm and approachable at the same time.
He lived for the outdoors. He rose at 4:30 a.m. six days a week to coach his swimming team or to swim alongside them. He bicycled to work and ran when he got home. He was a triathlete who constantly strove to improve his physical condition but who never got so competitive that he couldn't offer helpful tips to others. His athletic bent forced him to live in the moment, and he lived each moment fully.
As I reflect upon his death, I'm reminded that what matters most is not how much time we have—for who knows how long that is?—but how well we spend it: Whether we live with honor or by deception, live in harmony with others or at their expense. Whether or not you believe God keeps score of our daily account, each of us is, and will be remembered as, the sum of these choices.
Alan died tragically and too young, but he also died well: Pursuing an activity that he loved with a woman he loved, near the town where he grew up. If his sudden death left no time for goodbyes, the way he lived his life also left no cause for regrets.
You can cram a lifetime of friendships. experiences, good cheer, and good will into 31 years.
Sometimes, one has to.
He was only 31 years old.
When newspapers teem with images of flag-draped coffins and Al Qaeda swears that it loves the afterlife more than this one, it seems like an indulgence to mourn a more private loss. But Alan was a good man who died too young. He will be missed deeply.
Perhaps, I'm getting old. I remember days—were they so long ago?—when my time seemed infinite and my possibilities endless, a time when I presumed that all my relationships would last a lifetime and that a lifetime would last the length forecast by actuarial tables.
Now, I live in an era of uncertainty. My parents' health is sketchy, my country's future filled with doubt. I no longer believe I can accomplish everything I want in the time allotted to me. Alan's death made me realize, more than ever, that we live on borrowed time, enjoying moments withdrawn from the bank of life—but without a statement of account to show the balance left to us.
So how are you spending your precious hours on earth?
Alan spent his with integrity. He gave time to charity, volunteered as a swimming coach for the local master's team, and always had a ready smile for old friends and for prospective new ones. He was quiet and shy but remained warm and approachable at the same time.
He lived for the outdoors. He rose at 4:30 a.m. six days a week to coach his swimming team or to swim alongside them. He bicycled to work and ran when he got home. He was a triathlete who constantly strove to improve his physical condition but who never got so competitive that he couldn't offer helpful tips to others. His athletic bent forced him to live in the moment, and he lived each moment fully.
As I reflect upon his death, I'm reminded that what matters most is not how much time we have—for who knows how long that is?—but how well we spend it: Whether we live with honor or by deception, live in harmony with others or at their expense. Whether or not you believe God keeps score of our daily account, each of us is, and will be remembered as, the sum of these choices.
Alan died tragically and too young, but he also died well: Pursuing an activity that he loved with a woman he loved, near the town where he grew up. If his sudden death left no time for goodbyes, the way he lived his life also left no cause for regrets.
You can cram a lifetime of friendships. experiences, good cheer, and good will into 31 years.
Sometimes, one has to.