I’m not too proud to admit that I’m old, and as such, I grew up in the era of the rotary phone. Yes, that’s right kids. Prior to the smart phone you’re likely reading this on, there was once a huge rectangle box of a contraption that hung on a wall that had a round dial on the front. The dial had the numbers 0-9 on it with a corresponding hole that you could fit your finger through. To dial, you’d stick your finger in the hole that had the number you desired, and you’d turn the dial until a metal stopper thingy prevented you from turning the dial any further. You’d take your finger back out of the hole, and the dial would rotate back to its original spot.
Oh, and this phone had a coiled cord that connected to a handset that connected your ear to your mouth with a comfortable handle in between. Lest you think this is the weirdest thing ever invented, it’s all we knew. When push button phones landed on the scene there were lines out the door of our local Service Merchandise to buy this new technological marvel.
One day when I was around nine years old, our family had just returned from a grocery outing. I can’t recall, but we may have gone to Pizza Hut on our way so I could claim my Book It I had earned. (Fun Fact: Still a thing.) As we were entering the house, the phone was already ringing. I loved answering the phone as I honed my answering skills and it made me feel important.
The voice on the other end was recognizable, but incoherent. Grandma Frantz was trying to tell me to put my mom on the phone, but I couldn’t quite make it out. I placed the phone against my chest to mute my loud voice as I called for mom.
“Mom! Mom! The phone’s for you! It’s Grandma… she’s crying.”
And with that, I experienced my first death of a loved one. Grandpa Frantz. A quiet but loving man. Since he died when I was rather young, I don’t have a ton of memories. Had he lived longer, I would’ve asked him all sorts of questions about him serving in the US Military, about starting his own business selling the new invention of TVs in the small town where my mom grew up, and about being the town cop to help protect the townsfolk and earn a bit of cash on the side.
But, I was nine. And, death was weird. I remember him lying in the casket. I remember the dank smell of the funeral home. I remember the seemingly long lines and the crying. I was just too young to really understand.
But now, I’ve matured and have reached the age where the news of losing someone within my sphere shakes me to my core. Friends, loved ones, clients…the news sends chills down my spine. I know, intellectually and eventually, that day will arrive for all of us. But emotionally, it saddens me.
How to react?
What to say?
What to do?
How to feel?
My guess is that my mom, who was a hospice nurse, navigated the death of friends and family with much more understanding, and awareness, and grace. But for me, my soul aches. The hardship of loss is tangible. It reminds me to be more intentional to engage with those I love.
Each day is a gift. Time is a treasure. Spend it wisely.
Do work you love with people that you love. Make a difference. Help a friend. Call a loved one.
Seize the day. And live on purpose today.
