The note above was penned by an eighty-five-year-old man named Robert. One day last month, he drove his car down a steep rural road to look at a pond. When he tried to drive back the way he came, the car rolled off the path and became mired in a ravine.
Robert was unable to walk out of his situation due to back problems that left him only able to get around with the help of a walker. He had no food. The only water he had barely filled an 8 ounce bottle. He honked his horn until the car battery was depleted.
Robert sat there, alone in his car, for two days.
With no food, little water, and temperatures in the upper 90s, he realized things didn’t look good. So he grabbed a pen and began writing on the car’s armrest.
Look closely and you can make a bit of it out. The first—and Robert said the most important—was that he make sure everyone knew it was an accident. Robert didn’t want anyone thinking he committed suicide. He wrote that the car’s wheels spun out. He asked that his family give him a closed casket.
About forty hours later, Robert was found. Turns out that final note wasn’t needed after all. As you can imagine, the whole ordeal changed him. Robert has a new outlook on life. He understands its delicateness. He knows every moment is precious.
It’s a good story with a happy ending. But me, I can’t stop thinking about that note.
What would I tell my family? What would I tell you? What would I say if I could never say anything more? Those questions have preyed on my mind since reading Robert’s story. I figured the only way I could start thinking about something else is to go ahead and write my letter.
So here it is, the last thing I’d ever write:
Dear All,
I don’t know how I managed to get myself in this mess. I think a lot of times you can’t see the trouble that’s coming until it’s on you. This is probably one of those times. I guess I should hurry. I never used to think much about time. Suddenly, time seems pretty important.
To my family, I want to say that the very last thing I want to do is leave you behind. You need to know that as much as I’m ready for heaven, I’m thinking the angels will have to drag me there. But don’t worry, I’ll find me a bench somewhere near the gate and wait for each of you.
To my wife, I’m sorry I was never the man I wanted to be. I’m thankful you overlooked that. Take care of the kids. Raise them to believe like you and fight like me.
To my son, there are few things more difficult in life than knowing how to be a man. I’ll give you a quick summary—work hard, laugh much, pray often. Love dignity rather than money. Face your darkness. Let your word be your bond. You’ll do well in life if you cling to those things. Know that I will always be proud of you.
To my daughter, you’ve taught me more about faith than anyone I’ve ever known. Remember this: we seldom have any choice as to the wars we must fight, we can only elect to face them with honor or cowardice.
To my friends, I know it may appear at times that I prefer silence to speech and solitude to company, but you mended the gashes I had rent into my own heart. Whatever goodness is in me was fostered by you.
I ask that you dispose of my remains as you see fit. I have no preference. Whatever flesh and bone is left behind is not me, it is merely an empty house that God has deemed I’ve outgrown.
Do not mourn, laugh.
Do not look back, look forward.
Live intently.
And last, know that all that separates the two of us is but one stroke of heaven’s eternal clock. Life is but a dream. Death is simply when we wake.
Man, Billy. I mean. Um. I got nothing after that, except… hmmm. WOW.
Um. Okay, I’ve got something. You’re one of God’s most beautiful creatures with an amazing gift for the written word.
And, I was super glad to hear Robert didn’t need his note.
Billy, I never quite seem to know what to say to you. Your writing transcends beautiful and I feel a bit oaf’ish in its presence. Just damn.
A few years ago, I tried to say those things that need to be said before dying, and it wound up in my blog. I just rustled through the archives and here it is… http://skirt.com/getaclewis/blog/case-i-die … but somehow I wanna switch it out for what you wrote. My new blog will be called…
What he said.
Oh how God uses you Billy.
Thank you for listening.
You have a few more books in you, friend. But I’ll be at the gate waiting for you. I’m the one in the snuggie, but I’ll holler when I see your cowboy hat.
Stop doing this to me – you’re killing me.
Beautiful words, my Friend. Now for the hard question: Have you told them face-to-face? I know…GULP. It’s a fine line to walk being able to write it vs. say it. You don’t want people to think you’ve been diagnosed with a terminal condition and not telling. Hmmm…
Triple-loving the comments here. I wanna see Candy in her Snuggie.
This reminds me of the beautiful CS Lewis allegory of the mother who was imprisoned in a windowless cell and brought her son up there, and he thought that the outside world would look like the lines and scratches she’d drawn on the walls….and how our current world (compared to Heaven) is like mere scribbles on a wall in a cell.
I’m sure you know the story.
Oh – loved the post, of course.
Food for thought. What would I write? Hmm… What you expressed was very deep and well said. I especially like this: “Life is but a dream. Death is simply when we wake.”
Thank you Billy. That was beautiful. It made me cry.
You should’ve put a P.S. “Why yes. Yes, I always did like making y’all cry.”
Good post, Billy. Super good post. 🙂
Yup–I knew if I came over here and read this I’d want to cry. Sure enough, I did.
Mr. Bill, you should see the tears.
Bawling. Beautiful.
I just wrote my first personal letter to my Grandson who turned 16 the other day. This should have been the 16th letter, (one for each year) I hope your children get a copy of this post! It is a treasure !!
My oh my. Such Wisdom from Above. Thank you.
So precious and tender, Billy-boy! As usual! The Lord has given you a wonderful gift to touch the hearts of others. Bless you!
Reading your blog, I thought of a friend of mine who some time ago did attempt suicide. Four times. Over a period of a year or so. Making it look like an accident. He didn’t succeed.
Before anyone scoffs at his unsuccessful attempts as being only jokes, let me assure you that he’s still walking this earth because of the grace of God. No, God didn’t send his angels, nor me for that matter, in case anyone is wondering. But God did intervene. Each and every time.
I am an unpublished writer, querying my first novel and setting up my blog. But I hope one day I can write about him.
I’m proud to have known you, Billy. (Not that you’re gone yet …) And after that letter, all the more so.
[PS: If anything happens to me, would you be sure to tell my family—my very dearest ones—that the letter I wrote sometime back is tucked inside the back flap of my Bible?]
I have been reading your blog for some time now, but have never responded. It has probably been because I tend to ponder much of what you share and forget. There always seems to be a variety of points with which I can resonate in your writing. After reading this particular installment, I just wanted to say thank you. I have shared several of your posts with friends and colleagues and we have gained much from the simple profundity that lingers in your words. Thank you for continuing to write.
That takes courage… to write that. Thank you, gave me a lot to think about.
Beautiful- thanks.
Having a few days in a car, or a terminal illness, I guess is a blessing in a way in that we would have time to reflect and polish these final messages. I often think of a documentary I watched about United Airlines Flight 93. Knowing what was coming and that it could be at any moment, the passengers’ final messages were necessarily distilled down to their essence. I found it incredible that among the huge variety of personalities and personal histories to be found among a planeload of people, most of them responded in exactly the same way- they all had a burning need to call their most loved ones, to tell them “I love you”.
This reminds me of Jeanne Damoff’s post What I Would Still Say: http://jeannedamoff.wordpress.com/2011/08/15/what-i-would-still-say/
It’s a good assignment to pen a note, leaving behind clarification, truth, and love.
This is quite the sobering post, but we need to remember our own mortality.
When I was a teacher, I would sometimes distribute a test to anxiety filled students. “Are we going to die?” they would ask. “Yes,” I said. “But it is not likely that my test will kill you.”
Your letter, your last words reminds me of the book The Blessing. Thanks for reminding us to focus on the important things.
the last sentence is so profound: thanks for sharing it. I am grateful I can share it with FB friends.
Love your writing. I always think, “Yes, that’s how it is.”
I came over from The High Calling. Your title was so interesting to me and certainly your article delivered! Powerful words and I appreciate your wonderful perspective to eternity!
Excellent. Loved this. I will be thinking what my last writing would look like,