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It seems that the older I get, the more I understand the way mortality shapes our perception and our willingness to be fully in this world. It’s not something I used to think about directly—too scary—but now I often find myself reading the obituaries, musing on what I would want my own to say: What are the things that will sum up my life? What will stand out? I know this sounds a little morbid, but as Mother Theresa has said: “Each of us is merely a small instrument; all of us, after accomplishing our mission, will disappear.” I wonder what small things people will remember: my dinner parties on the deck? My love for my dog? My weird obsession with cooking magazines? Will they remember my writing, my teaching, or will they remember a particular morning with coffee, a conversation that delved deeper than expected?

We can’t really know. All we can do is keep learning, until the very end, how to live an authentic life. How to be really here. And we can look to others as teachers in this lesson.

My next-door neighbor, Winton Manley, is just such a teacher for me: He’s ninety-eight years old and still drives his own car. I see him in the afternoons, backing out of the driveway, swerving a little wildly sometimes, but he always makes it safely into the street, then putters away in his white Oldsmobile to wherever it is he needs to go. He takes care of things. He takes care of his wife, Dorothy, who is ninety-four and has such bad arthritis now that she can’t move without her walker. “I have to persuade her to get up,” Winton says to me sometimes, when he walks over to admire my petunias or my pansies. “There are good days and there are bad days.”

I remember so clearly a day last summer, when I saw the two of them sitting out on their new deck in the sun. (Winton had it built because Dorothy can’t get out into her garden anymore; here she can admire her pots of geraniums.) The light glinted off their white, white hair. They were just sitting and smiling, not saying a word, and when I finally waved to announce my presence, Dorothy gazed at me as if I were just the most blessed creature on the planet. Her face looked translucent with love, with her expectation that I was exactly what the doctor ordered.

“A beautiful day!” she exclaimed, in a voice that’s grown so wavery in the years I’ve lived next door. I echoed her, speaking as loudly as I could: “Yes, a beautiful day!” And because I was on my way to my own back patio to do who knows what—some reading, some weeding—and because it would have been exhausting to keep talking in that loud, hearty voice, I just waved again and continued on, leaving them sitting there, nodding, enjoying their beautiful day.

And I know that sometime soon, their daughter or grandson will come to my door and tell me that one or both of them has “passed.” And I know I’ll gasp and say, “I’m sorry,” because I am: sorry not only for their passing, and for a daughter’s grief, a grandson’s pain, but truly sorry for all my moments of inattention, my reluctance to keep talking a few minutes longer, my unwillingness to walk the few steps necessary to chat. I’ll remember all the cucumbers and green beans Winton left on my doorstep—bags of them, more than a single woman could ever eat—and I’ll wish, so heartily, that I’d had even a sliver of such abundance to return.

There’s a poem I love by Miguel de Unamuno called “Throw Yourself Like Seed.” In it he exclaims, “Throw yourself like seed as you walk, and into your own field….”

When I consider my life as one defining moment after another, I see that I am most fully alive when I “throw myself like seed,” not holding back. I ask myself: What am I holding in reserve? Why? So I take this as my lesson, allowing Winton and Dorothy to be my unexpected teachers: As much as we can, we must never pass up the opportunity to connect, to be fully with each other and with the world, to make each day beautiful for the time we have.
From The Pen and the Bell: Mindful Writing in a Busy World by Brenda Miller and Holly J. Hughes. Published by Skinner House in 2012, this book is available from the UUA bookstore  or 617-723-4805.

There is an interactive website for The Pen and the Bell at www.penandbell.com.

By Brenda Miller

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I have spent my days stringing and unstringing my instrument while the song I came to sing remains unsung. 
—Rabindranath Tagore

On sabbatical in East Africa, I heard a story of a people who believe that we are each created with our own song. Their tradition as a community is to honor that song by singing it as a welcome when a child is born, as a comfort when the child is ill, in celebration when the child marries, and in affirmation and love when death comes. Most of us were not welcomed into the world in that way. Few of us seem to know our song.

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I began attending the Quaker Meeting close to my apartment on Sunday mornings. Week after week I sat with them. Nope, no awakening for me there. Probably a good thing, too, because I wouldn’t have had a clue what to do with it. But at one of those Meetings I heard about a daylong workshop on Indian Treaties.

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What if you had x-ray vision like Superman? What would you use it for? Of course, real x-rays let you see through skin and muscle to the bones underneath, but they wouldn’t let you look through the walls of buildings to see what the villains were up to inside. But never mind. It’s our game of pretend, and we set the rules.

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War is toxic—tragedy, waste and profiteering are an inevitable part of even the so-called “good wars.” War is sin—as defined by theologian Paul Tillich: “a three-fold separation: separation among individuals, separation of man from himself, and separation of all men from the Ground of Being.” War is toxic and war is sin—not only for the soldier who fights the war, but also for the society who authorizes the war-making in a foreign land and then is all too often separated (geographically, intellectually, and emotionally) from the death, injury and contamination that are the tragic consequences of war.

Christians believe all of us fall into sin at one time or another and these sins directly or indirectly harm others and reduce our own integrity and spiritual strength. “If we say we have no sin we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us” (1 John 1:8). Unitarian Universalists often reject words like “sin.” Yet most Unitarian Universalists are Americans – we belong to a war-making society. War-making societies across cultures and generations have practiced rituals of purification and cleansing in order to assuage this toxicity, remedy sin,  and facilitate healing and wholeness. The Christian tradition offers a ritual of purification and cleansing called confession. “If we confess our sins he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9).

Unitarian Universalists would do well to consider Tillich’s view of “sin as separation” and reflect on how war separates us from the “Spirit of Life” and the essential principles that define our faith: the inherent worth and dignity of every person; justice, equity and compassion in human relations; the goal of world community; and respect for the interdependent web of existence of which we are all a part. To ignore or disregard the fact of sin just because we don’t like the word is unrealistic and self-deceptive because sin causes great harm to individuals and society. While some alumni of the Catholic Church may have knee-jerk reactions to confession, the ritual of confession is not foreign to Unitarian Universalism, as evidenced by the confessions found in our hymnal, Singing the Living Tradition, and the words of the 2010 Creating Peace Statement of Conscience: “our faith calls us to create peace, yet we confess we have not done all we could to prevent the spread of armed conflict throughout the world.”

As a Unitarian Universalist Minister deployed to Afghanistan as an Army chaplain, I faced the daunting challenge of being a good steward of our heritage in the combat zone and bringing the prophetic witness of our principles to bear on the military institution. As a member of the Profession of Arms in service to the Nation I also felt an obligation to provide spiritual leadership to the people of the United States, many of whom have been all too separated from the consequences of our war-making over the past decade. I wrote “A Veteran’s Day Confession for America” to address this harmful separation, facilitate purification and cleansing, restore connections, and reconcile us to right relationships. Jesus taught, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted; blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God” (Matthew 5:4, 8). There is nothing I want more than for God to bless America and for God to bless our troops. My hope is that if more people will embrace confessions like this one we might actually secure these blessings.

Disclaimer: All entries to CLF/Quest Military Ministries page reflect the personal views of the contributor. The views expressed here are in no way to be construed as an individual or individuals speaking in their official capacities for the agencies, departments, or service branches they serve in. This is not an official publication of the Department of Defense, the U.S. Army, U.S. Navy, U.S. Coast Guard, U.S. Marine Corps, U.S. Air Force, any government agency, or any other organization.