On Living One's Own Obituary

You can imagine my surprise. Well, I think anyone would be.

I couple of months ago Christopher was telling me about "Google Alerts" -- a feature of the ubiquitous search engine enterprise that allows users to track internet activity related to a subject of choice. Every day, Google does a sweep of the internet on your designated search term and sends you an email with links to all (if any) of the hits. Curious about a particular new cell phone supposedly in development, I set up a Google Alert for it. And, in a flash of narcissism -- or paranoia -- I set up another with my name. Hey, even Jesus wanted to know what people were saying about him.

Well, the sad truth is that people are saying very little. In the weeks since setting up the Alert, I might have had three -- maybe four -- hits on my name. And they have all been scintillating: the posted City Council Meeting agenda indicating that I would be offering the opening prayer; our church's newsletter proudly featuring my column. That sort of thing. Yawn. In other words, nothing. Zilch.

Until today, when the Google Alert passed along the link to one internet hit:

Sep 15, 2009 ... Online obituary for Timothy Diebel. Read Timothy Diebel's life story, offer tributes/condolences, send flowers or create a Timothy Diebel ...

As I say, you can imagine my surprise. I felt for my pulse. I looked in the mirror. I wondered if someone knew something I didn't. Then, I returned to the email and clicked on the link. My relief was palpable: although indeed 53 years of age, this Timothy Diebel didn't look a thing like me. He did, however, live not too far away -- in St. Paul, Minnesota. Feeling only a bit voyeuristic, I read through several of the online condolences submitted by friends -- including one by his ex-wife, if I was reading correctly between the lines. Now that is a sobering thought to consider. (Note to self: specify in pre-arrangements that online condolences are not to be solicited). All indications suggest that he seems to have been a nice guy, although his actual obituary was breathtakingly short -- only marginally longer than the hyphen between two dates. Besides, what else are people going to write?

Sufficiently satisfied that I was, indeed, still alive, I began to reflect on the prospect -- suspending for a moment the eeriness of considering one's own funeral. The concept isn't unprecedented. I, myself, once officiated at the funeral of a person who was still alive and in attendance. The details are unimportant; suffice it to say that the quite-elderly woman was, by all medical intelligence, near death; family members had already made plans to convene for the anticipated farewell; and when, to the surprise of all, the patient suddenly improved and was summarily discharged from the hospital, the family decided to go ahead with the plans. Odd, I suppose, but certainly expedient. And she could be there to hear what people said about her -- even if she was hardly in a position to burnish her legacy if the reports turned out to be negative.

I, however, am still virile enough to effect some positive augmentation of my legacy. Stewardship of time comes to mind. Relationships, and, of course, noble contribution. Just to begin the list.

Reading the obituary again and exhaling with the relief that it isn't mine, I thought for a moment of how easy it is to take life for granted, and also one's own gifts to be shared in the course of it.

The day is still young. If it is going to be anything more than the hyphen between my own two dates, I had better get busy living it in a fruitful way. It would be nice if my survivors have something positive -- maybe even interesting -- to write about.