My dear friend,
I have been thinking about our conversation.
So much detritus lies in the dust after our lives are over. I remember a song by Craig Taubman entitled, “Who Will Remember Me?”. It is a powerful question contained in song thinking about dying after a satisfied life knowing that we will not be forgotten. Yet as the song supposes, what if no one recalls us? What if our lives are erased and no one remembers our name, how we labored, what we crafted, our joys and sorrows, our creations and missteps? After life isn’t it a universal wish that we will be remembered? Don’t we all hope that our lives meant something and have left a lasting imprint on the world?
I think of the items I have collected and saved from my parents. There is almost nothing from my mother and some important documents that have come to me from my father. But who will want them? And what happened to all the things of the previous generation? Sure, I have few photos of my grandparents and a couple of great grandparents, but I accept that even if my children take them, they will not remember who these people were as they have no personal memories of interacting with them or knowledge of their lives, much less physical contact with them.
Grudgingly, reluctantly, I have come to accept that the pictures and various documents will reach the rubbish heap. There is too much for any of my kids to take and little reason for them to want them since these items do not relate in any meaningful way to their lives.
And yet. These are their blood relatives, their forbears, to whom they ultimately owe their lives.
To make matters worse, not only do I have these various pieces of family history I have also collected more “things” than they ever had. I have more certificates, prizes, letters, awards, degrees, cherished books and articles than they had in a lifetime. I remember purchasing a Shas (Talmud) when I was in college. I meticulously researched the best set available, one that had a high rag content and was likely to last generations. The tomes must weigh well over 200 pounds, and I paid a lot of money (in those days) for them. Who will take all that? Already my library has been significantly downsized. Only that which is most cherished remains with me. And still….
My children will suffer through the same agonizing questions as they come of a certain age. Perhaps my grandparents and great-grandparents; perhaps Moses and Abraham puzzled over the same issues. Is this just part of the human condition? We are predisposed to live a life that matters, one where we will be recalled and our life story told. Except for the Sarahs, Rambams and Einsteins our life histories are swept clean by time.
Does anything last?
The people whose lives we touched and helped will also pass away. So even all those acts of generosity and selflessness will disappear as one generation takes the place of another.
On more than one occasion someone has come to me and shared how what I said to them at a time of transition in their life galvanized them to face their trial. Each time when presented with a story like that I freely admit that I never recalled saying what they told me I said.
I am warmed and comforted by those moments. It tells me that my life has had meaning, that I made a difference to someone. Nothing physical lasts, including us. But something infinitely more important survives the short span of our time on earth.
You have changed the world, one tiny bit at a time. One pebble at a time you leave behind a mountain of accumulated goodness. You leave the world in better condition.
