Apparently, I am immortal.

At least that is the conclusion one might draw based on my recent behavior.

In two weeks, we will arrive at the one-year anniversary of the day I asked for – and RECEIVED! – an estate planning questionnaire from a local Fort Collins attorney. 

It all came about one day when Joan and I sat down and discussed the fact that we did not have an up-to-date will or estate plan. We also realized we have done next to nothing to plan for what will happen to these mortal coils once they’ve been officially shuffled off. 

Not only that, but I have also seen FIRSTHAND the monstrous disservice it is to family members when all of that planning and decision-making is suddenly dumped into their laps upon the death of a parent/sibling/spouse/loved one. And because I have watched people experience that emotional kind of dopeslap, I am STRONGLY committed to sparing my kids from it. 

And yet, there that little questionnaire sits. It is right over there… across the desk from me. Staring up at me accusingly. On November 15 it will be one year old. You will also note it is a little wrinkled and waterlogged because of a carelessly sloshed glass of water. 

Finally, if you look very closely you will see that it is also remarkably free from the tarnish of pen or pencil.  

“COMPLETE THE WILL QUESTIONNAIRE” has been right there on my TO DO list for months now. Originally, I imagined that leaving it there on top of my desk would help get it done since there is “always something there to remind me,” in the immortal words of Dionne Warwick. 

And yet, somehow, there it still lies. In its unblemished, virginal state.

In one sense, this blog post could be aimed at the disease of procrastination. [In fact, did you know that procrastination is a thinly disguised form of depression? Just read that today somewhere.]

But I think the more salient point to be pursued here is my (apparent) subconscious belief that the Grim Reaper will manage to always come to the wrong address when sent to fetch me home. 

Of course, I don’t REALLY believe that. Evidence to the contrary is too overwhelming. With one notable exception, death’s batting average is a perfect 1.000, dating back to the beginning of time. 

But I certainly don’t seem to be acting as if I believe I will one day be viewing the grass from the underside.

I don’t think I am the Lone Ranger here. I don’t know too many other people who are comfortable talking about death… especially their own. But where does this reluctance come from? Does it stem from a belief that by “putting it out there,” death will come seek them out more quickly than it was otherwise planning to? 

That seems silly.

Or is it because the topic brings about a swirl of negative feelings that people would rather avoid? 

Maybe. Or if it is none of those reasons, what is it?

If I am truly the person of faith I publicly claim to be, the whole subject of death should be a walk in the park, right? It’s like Paul said in his letter to the Thessalonians: “But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers and sisters, about those who have died, so that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope.  For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have died.” (1 Thessalonians 4:13-14, NRSVU). 

Not only do I BELIEVE that promise, but I am also COUNTING ON IT, as one pastor friend of mine says in every Easter Sunday sermon.

In which case, the event of the cessation of my mortal life should be something I anticipate with joy and hope…

… and with an eager willingness to fill out a simple estate planning questionnaire. 

OK. You talked me into it. I’ll do it. I will fill this thing out, unafraid of facing the reality of my own demise. I will fill it out with the knowledge of the tremendous act of love it is for my children. 

Finally, I will fill it out so I can experience the unspeakable joy of CHECKING THAT THING OFF MY “TO DO” LIST!!

Abundant blessings;