Every time I attend a funeral or memorial service, I think about how powerless the guest of honor is.
Conversations take place, tributes and memories are offered, events of their lives are recalled, intimate stories are relayed—and they can’t do a thing about any of it. Once someone dies they are defined and summarized without their consent.If there’s one certainty of this life, it’s that we all will surely find ourselves in a similar situation, including you.
I’m sorry to remind you but there will come a day when you will cease to be.
One day, there will be a funeral for you and you won't be present for it—at least not the part of you that really matters.
Some physical remnant of you may be there as a visual reminder for those gathered, but that is all. Your real you-ness will be somewhere else, with only a small bit of organic matter left here.
On the day of your funeral, you will not have something that you have right now and probably take for granted. You will not have a voice. You will not have agency.
You won't get to craft the guest list of your funeral, to decide who shows up or who stays away, or what they feel as they mark the end of your time on this planet. Their grief, ambivalence, or joy will be beyond your control.
You won't be able to compose the narrative, spin the story, clarify any misunderstandings, or manage perceptions.
You will not have the chance to set the record straight or to place period at the end of the sentence that was your life; to take back words you wish you'd never said or to speak words you should have.
And it will be impossible for you to posthumously have the last word on who you were.
Once your voice goes silent and your breath runs out, your legacy will be out of your hands and in the hands of others to define.
And since you will not be able to say anything on your behalf on the day of your funeral, only two things will speak then: the sum total of the life you lived up until the moment your heart stopped beating—and the voices of those your life rubbed up against during that time, the marks on their souls that you left.
Your memory will be what those two things determine it will be: your choices now, and what those choices do in and to and for people. What this means, dear friend, if you're reading or hearing these words is that you are currently alive. You still have time to say something in this world; to those you pass by, those you interact with for a second, those you sleep next to, gave birth to, those you love dearly.
You can move through this day giving people whatever it is you hope they will hold within their hearts on the day you depart, the voice of you that will echo in their heads long after yours has stopped speaking here.
Today you have the opportunity to outlive your own life, to be a co-writer in your legacy, to in essence, plan your funeral.
Maybe you don't care what happens after you're gone. Maybe you're fine with the idea of everyone else getting to decide what parts of you get preserved and remembered. Perhaps you believe your legacy is none of your business or concern.
But, if leaving something beautiful to those who remain here matters, if you’d like to craft a bit of the eulogy that punctuates your passing, you get to do that here and now.
No, you won't get to speak on the day of your funeral.
So speak today through what you do, how you treat the humanity in your path, through the very eloquent words of your daily life.
And while you still have breath, speak love.
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